


The Code

by AduroWrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Draco Malfoy, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Minor Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Smart Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-01-29 17:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 106,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21414103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AduroWrites/pseuds/AduroWrites
Summary: AU. 6th year. Draco Malfoy has a secret - he's actually a genius. But even he can't see a way out of eventual servitude to Voldemort. Bill Weasley has a secret - he's spying for the Order. His cover is teaching Ancient Runes at Hogwarts, and Draco's in his class. 6th year brings debate class, mysteries, horcruxes, homework, and unexpected friendships.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley
Comments: 370
Kudos: 566





	1. The Dissenter's Code

**Author's Note:**

> This is an edited version of my story on fanfiction.net. I am updating the story to post here. I am walking through my editing process on that site, so if that interests you, you can check it out. This story is pretty Gen on the relationships, although Bill is in a relationship with Fleur. Mostly it's a story of friendship.

Chapter 1: The Dissenter's Code

Two weeks. 

It had been two weeks since school let out and Draco was having the best summer of his sixteen years. Both of his parents were gone. Lucius was awaiting sentencing for his role in the battle at the Ministry and was currently held in Azkaban under strict ‘no contact’ orders. Narcissa was off in Spain “visiting relatives”, which was code for screwing another man. 

It was a poorly kept secret that Narcissa was unfaithful. Draco had found out when he was seven. His mother had invited 'Cousin Richard' to stay for a weekend while Lucius was away. Draco had wandered into the dining room, searching for a snack, and found the two of them engaged in an act he'd never seen before on the breakfast table. Narcissa had screamed and thrown a candlestick at him. Draco immediately ran away and found some helpful books about biology and sexuality in the library. He'd learned then what marital infidelity was, and deduced that 'Cousin Richard' was not actually a member of the family. The following morning he’d set the table on fire so he wouldn’t have to eat on in. 

Two weeks without either parent meant Draco had free range of the manor. He walked around the house with no shoes on, sometimes sliding on the polished floors in his sock feet. He didn’t bother with formal robes during meals, and didn't eat it the dining room at all. He ate in the library while he read everything from philosophy to history to calculus. On good weather days, he took the thestrals out for a ride, flying far too fast and far beyond the borders he was usually allowed. He stayed up far too late and slept in until noon. 

Draco knew he should be upset his father was in prison, but mostly he felt relief. Lucius was smart. Perhaps not as smart as Draco, but he was cunning and manipulative and was always working from some secret agenda that Draco could never figure out. It kept him in a constant state of anxiety, question and analyzing every word he said. But even worse than the anxiety was the ridiculous, unfounded warmth in his chest every time Lucius said something kind, or looked at him with some sort of fondness in his eyes. It didn’t matter that Lucius was a murderer and a schemer. That child inside him would always crave his father’s affection. Sometimes it was just a look. Sometimes it was a nod. Sometimes it was a hand on his shoulder. It was the closest to 'I love you' Draco ever got.

So Draco enjoyed the reprieve. He was rather used to being alone. Lucius was typically in-and-out on business, and with the return of the Dark Lord, he had even more tasks to attend to. And Draco was more used to Narcissa’s absence than her company. Even when she was at home, she was usually drunk or high on pleasure potions. 

As an only child with busy parents, Draco was adept at entertaining himself. It was actually rather easy because he had an insatiable curiosity about the world and a mind that retained every tidbit of information he read. The Muggles had a term for it. Eidetic memory, or colloquially, a photographic memory. Paired with his inquisitive nature, Draco could easily be called a genius. And raised by parents as affluent and politically adept at his parents, Draco had learned to put his genius into good use – namely, keeping his intellect a secret. From a very early age, Draco had learned that his parents would use him as a tool to their ends without giving his wellbeing a second thought. So with them out of the house, Draco no longer had t look over his shoulder as he delved into books about conceptual potions or quantum physics, or as he concocted his own experiments in the dungeons. It was the closest to freedom he’d ever experienced. 

At the moment, he’d finished all his reading and was waiting for the next shipment of books he’d ordered, from the Wizarding and Muggle libraries. He’d retired to the music room and was occupying his time playing one of his favorite piano concertos. Narcissa had hired him a piano tutor when he was five. She had liked showing him off to her friends. When he performed for an audience, Draco kept to the music as it was written. His fingers skillfully tripped up and down the keys, playing complicated runs with absolutely no variation. When he was alone, however, he varied the tempo and volume, sometimes adding in his own syncopated rhythms, inserting a passion he did not reveal to listeners. 

The piece he was playing now, the Phoenix Concerto, had ample opportunity for improvisation and interpretation. He crashed his fingers down to elicit the fury of the flames that sprang up, devouring and consuming the bird, before transforming into a slow, gentle fall of ash. But then, as the dirge swelled and became overwhelming, a familiar melody returned – the melody of life, the phoenix being reborn. 

Draco ended the piece with a wistful, bluesy glissando. Slow, mocking applause sounded from the doorway. 

Draco whipped around. Lucius was standing just inside the doorframe, looking immaculate and foreboding, blood red robes draping gracefully to the floor. His cane was tucked under one arm.

"You have never played like that before," Lucius said in a slight drawl. He raised an eyebrow in a lofty sort of humor. 

Draco felt a tinge of fear, though he could not explain why. "I didn't know you were released, Father.” He tried to keep a neutral expression on his face. He could feel the tension rising in his chest, threatening to strangle him like an exotic snake. He doubted Lucius was here for a social visit – especially as he was supposed to be in Azkaban. So what was he here for? What did he want?

"You didn't know on purpose," said Lucius. "I wasn't released."

Draco immediately understood; the Dark Lord had helped him escape. The snake around his chest constricted.

"No doubt you will read about it in the Daily Prophet tomorrow night. That's when the breakout will be discovered.” Lucius flicked a bit of dust from his sleeve that Draco knew wasn’t really there “Well, come here. Let me have a look at you. I haven’t seen you since last summer."

Draco got to his feet in a gracefulness he inherited from both his father and mother. He crossed the floor, feeling Lucius’ gaze sweep over him. He suddenly wished he’d tucked his shirt in and put shoes on. He didn’t like feeling so disheveled, not when Lucius, just escaped from prison, looked like he could be featured on the cover of Magical Business Weekly. He stopped in front of his father. He’d grown over the past year, and was starting to catch up with Lucius. But Lucius also wore platforms in his boots, and it made Draco feel absurdly small. 

He forced himself to hold still as Lucius walked around him, measuring him to some unknown standard. Lucius stopped in front of him, reached out to grasp his chin, and tipped his face up. 

"You've grown," said Lucius softly. Draco detected a bit of sorrow in his eyes.

"Yes, Father. It has been a year."

Lucius' finger traced his jaw in a manner that almost portrayed fondness. “I missed your birthday. Was your mother here for it at least?"

"She's visiting relatives," said Draco.

"Of course she is.” Lucius’ voice dripped with annoyance. "Though it was probably a good thing she was not present for the occasion. Merlin knows what she would have done to you."

Draco flinched; Lucius’ eyes narrowed. His father disliked any display of fear, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead he changed the subject.

“Did you get yourself a gift?” 

"I went to Diagon Alley and bought myself a new broom.”

"I told you not to go there alone.” 

"I was not to go without a chaperone until I was sixteen. I was sixteen."

"Yes, but that was assuming that there was someone at the house who knew that you were leaving," Lucius said sharply. "There are many people out there who prey on young wizards walking about alone."

"All of those people are Dark Wizards who know that if they touch me, you will hunt them down and torture them to death," Draco said, feeling like a normal teenager with an overprotective father for once, and not a teenager with Death Eaters for parental figures. "And I am old enough to take care of myself."

Lucius' tense posture relaxed a millimeter, which was his equivalent of sighing. "I suppose you are then. Well, run along and do your schoolwork. I have duties to attend in my office."

Draco inclined his head to his father and went to his own study in his wing of the manor. He had already finished his homework, but Lucius was to be obeyed, if only in show. He grabbed an old Muggle textbook on calculus and lost himself in the equations.

Lucius was not at dinner that night, which wasn’t surprising. But Lucius did meet him at breakfast, dressed in riding attire, the same as Draco. 

“I thought I’d join you.”

Draco figured that Lucius had checked up with the house elves on his daily schedule but for the life of him couldn't figure out why. The tension that he had managed to shake off last night came back.

After the morning meal they went out to the thestral stables on the property, Draco choosing Eagan, a fiery stallion, and Lucius choosing the older and better mannered Ammon.

"How was the year?" asked Lucius, once they were air born.

"The usual," said Draco.

"Your grades?" 

"Mostly E's.” They were all E's actually. It was an easy way for Draco to hide his intellect at school. Straight E students never got additional attention at school – no praise or concern. Draco had been getting straight E’s since his first year, not that anyone would notice. 

"I won't be here for the rest of the summer," said Lucius. "Our lord needs work done abroad."

"I didn't know he had interests overseas.”

"It is a new development. I’d like you to go to France for the rest of the summer as I will be unavailable and your mother is Merlin knows where."

"Why France?" 

"I’ll be there, for the most part. You can meet some of my associates.”

Draco figured he meant Death Eater associates. He’d met most of Lucius’ business partners already.

Lucius turned to him. “He will want to meet you.”

Draco felt his blood run cold. He knew Lucius meant Voldemort. “Is that so?” 

"He has heard about you and is impressed. He wishes you to join his ranks."

Draco crushed the panic that was rising in his chest and turned to the comfort of cold logic. “When?” He kept his voice casual, flat. 

"The night school lets out," said Lucius.

"A good night," said Draco, neither accepting nor declining the position.

"I will let him know you look forward to it,” Lucius said. He glanced at the sky and reined his thestral in. “I must go and have the house-elves pack. No doubt the Aurors will be combing the manor by nightfall looking for me. Call the attorney when they arrive."

"I will. Safe travels, Father."

Lucius nodded and kicked Ammon into a gradual dive. Draco watched him head back towards the manor, and once he was out of sight, he let Eagan have his head. The thestral launched into a steep dive, and then twisted into a barrel roll. Lucius didn’t approve of such actions, believing that anything so reckless was in violation of the Malfoy Code, rule fifteen, but Draco didn't care right then. Lucius was forcing him to become a murderer and a servant, and he believed that broke half a dozen of the rules. He could refuse, of course, but that would mean being disinherited, and very possibly killed. And he had nowhere to go – no family or friends outside of the Dark Lord’s sphere of influence. There was always Dumbledore’s group, but he doubted they’d welcome him with open arms. 

Draco urged Eagan on, wanting the rush of adrenaline to distract from the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was contemplating betraying is father. 

* * *

Draco had hoped to find some semblance of direction over the summer, but as he sat on the Hogwarts Express, the start of another school year stretching before him, he had to admit that he’d failed. He heaved a sigh and slumped back in the seat. It was hardly dignified behavior, but he was alone in the compartment. No one else had seen it. 

He turned to the window and watched the students bid farewell to their parents. Some hugged. Some kissed. Some cried and some smiled. Some dodged such displays of affection entirely. Draco had a theory about human behavior that took into account such varied displays of emotions. He theorized that everyone had an internal code, individual and unique to themselves. Some people were aware of their code, while others only stored it in their subconscious. Some codes had rules, while others had values. Some had addendums and provisos; others only vague concepts. The codes differed, but everyone had one. Otherwise, how would they know how to act? 

Draco’s gaze latched onto a black-haired boy – currently in conversation with two other students, a red-head and a brunette. The Great Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. A perfect example for Draco’s theory. Everything Harry did was dictated by his Gryffindor values, and his desire to be superior to the Slytherins, or Lord Voldemort. Granted this was all in his subconscious, but the fact was if Potter saw someone getting bullied, he would stop it because that's what heroes did, and that's what was in his code.

Draco’s gaze slid over to Theodore Nott, currently shoving his way through the throng of students trying to board. Theodore’s personal code was a replica of Lord Voldemort’s because that was who he admired. If Theodore saw someone getting bullied, he would join in. 

Draco turned away from the window. In some ways he envied Potter and Nott. They had easily fallen into their respective roles and adopted their codes accordingly. Draco was finding it more difficult. For as long as he could remember his own guiding light had been the Malfoy Family Code. Draco doubted that such a thing really existed, but his father used to quote rules from it to him, and Draco, being an obedient and awe-struck son, had copied down the rules onto parchment. He had sixty-four of the damned rules written in the journal currently sitting on his lap.

The door opened. Crabbe peaked through. “Sure we can’t sit with you?”

“Go!” Draco snapped.

Crabbe hurriedly shut the door, leaving Draco alone again. He sighed and flopped over on the seat bench, breaking rule number 23 of the Malfoy code. He’d been having trouble maintaining the code lately, mostly because rule number one was ‘obey your father’. 

If only Lucius had stayed in Azakaban… 

But there was no point in idle wishing.

The train whistle sounded. Outside, Draco could hear parents shouting goodbyes to their children. He sat up to watch the horde of mothers and fathers blinking back tears as they waved farewell at their sniveling first years. The train started with a jerk. Some of the parents began walking down the length of the platform, keeping their children in sight for as long as possible. Draco felt something like envy pierce his heart. 

He looked down at the journal in his hand, opened it, and in a fit of rage, he tore out the pages that held the Malfoy Code. One quick incendio later, and only a pile of ash remained. His father’s code had failed him; he would no longer follow it.

Logic, though, dictated that he replace the code with another. Well, he was a genius. He’d just make his own. He pulled out a quill and ink and, in a script perfected by countless tutors, wrote out on the top of the page ‘The Dissenter’s Code’. 

Now he just needed rules.

Draco sighed and dropped back onto the bench again, but he felt no guilt this time. He was following his own rules this time, quite literally, so he could sigh and flop about and be as dramatic as he pleased. 

No rules came to mind at that moment, so he put the journal aside and pulled out two books, Volsky’s The Time-Turners Explained and a Muggle book The Physics of Time Travel; he wanted to mark the differences.

* * *

Bill Weasley sat in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express and felt like a first year all over again. He had the same clenching in his stomach as he had at the age of eleven, leaving home for the first time. If anyone asked, he was going to say he was just nervous about his first year of teaching. The truth was far more dangerous.

He glanced at the kids around him. Ron sat beside him; Harry and Hermione shared the opposite bench. Bill had slowly gotten to know both of them over the summer. He’d been a regular visitor at 12 Grimmauld Place, where Harry and Hermione had spent their summer months. Harry had been quiet. He was struggling to recover from the loss of Sirius. Ron and Hermione had been spending a lot of time with him. 

The door slid open, revealing Ginny and a girl Bill knew from description – Luna Lovegood.

“Thought we’d drop in and say hi,” Ginny said, immediately shoving Ron over to claim a spot on the bench. 

Luna hovered more awkwardly in the doorway and turned a slightly vacant gaze to Bill. “You’re a little old to be a student.” 

"He's teaching Ancient Runes," Ginny explained.

"Ohh.” Luna nodded in understanding, the Christmas tree earrings she wore bouncing up and down with the motion. 

“Hermione, shouldn’t you and Ron be in the Prefect's compartment?" asked Ginny.

"The Head Boy and Girl decided that we should share a compartment this year. I don’t think they want any problems between us and the Slytherins.” 

"Smart of them," said Ginny. She turned her smile to Bill, and Bill couldn’t help but smile back. As the oldest of the seven, Bill had done his fair share of babysitting and quasi-parenting. He’d been annoyed by the responsibility at first, but he and Ginny had always shared a special bond. 

"Nervous?" she asked.

"A little," he admitted.

"You shouldn't be," said Hermione, looking up from her book. "It's not like you can be worse than Umbridge."

The compartment shared a laugh that was a little too grim to be truly humorous.

“I’ve heard plenty of horror stories,” Bill said. “But I think it’s just normal for first time teachers. I’m still trying to figure out the curriculum.”

“How many classes do you have?” Luna asked.

“I’ve got OWL level Ancient Runes and also an introductory course, and then of course the NEWT classes.”

“I’m in his class,” Hermione told the others, although Bill knew they’d already heard. Hermione was someone who took pride in her accomplishments, much like Percy – although she was a little more tactful about boasting. She looked at Bill. “Did you get the class list yet?”

Bill rummaged around in his bag for the list that’d been finalized late last week. For one terrible moment, he couldn’t find it and thought he’d left it behind – and wouldn’t that just be a great start to his first year of teaching? – but then he saw the familiar Hogwarts stationary and pulled out his official class list. 

Ron immediately grabbed it from his hand. “Mostly Ravenclaws – and some of them are in fifth year! That’s ridiculous. Some Hufflepuffs. And – Malfoy?” The last came out in a yelp.  
“What?” Hermione demanded. “He wasn’t in Ancient Runes last year. How can he be in a NEWT level course?”

"Apparently he took a summer class," said Bill with a grimace. He wasn’t pleased with the last minute addition himself. He’d frequently heard horror stories about the Malfoy family – from his father and his grandparents. The animosity between the two families was deep and long-standing. But Bill was a professor, and this Malfoy was a student. It wouldn’t be too horrible, would it? 

Silence filled the compartment. Bill looked up to see the teenagers watching him with wells of pity in their eyes. 

“Is he that bad?” he asked.

“We’re sorry,” Ginny said. She patted him on the knee. “Well, we’re off to watch the chocolate frog race between the fifth years.” She and Luna left the compartment. 

Bill looked to the others. “Well?”

Ron and Hermione jumped into a cascade of terrible stories about one Draco Malfoy, from Buckbeak to fake dementors. Harry joined in, his eyes regaining a little bit of spark as he talked about his ‘nemesis’. Bill found a new anxiety gripping his chest. The kid sounded like a miniature Lord Voldemort. But gradually the topic shifted to the last Quidditch World Cup and Bill found himself relaxing back into the seat. He pulled out his lessons plans to review. He hadn’t gotten as much done as he’d wanted. He’d been planning on being far more productive over the summer, but had been seduced into complacency with the summer months. 

Bill’s favorite subject in school had been Ancient Runes. Runes were the ancient written language of magic – dating as far back as Muggle written language. Although wizards eventually adopted the Muggle forms of writing – cuneiform, hieroglyphics, hanzi – they continued to use runes as a secret language to communicate and to ward and guard areas of import. The more turbulent the historical period, the more elaborate the runic system became. Very often messages were coded in the runes as an additional precaution against spies. Unfortunately, many of those codes were lost to time, and remained unsolved to this day. 

“Bill,” said Hermione, calling his attention back to the present. “Why did you get into curse breaking if you like Ancient Runes so much?" 

Bill put his papers down. “There’s not a lot of work for translators. General consensus says that we know more about magic nowadays than we did hundreds and thousands of years ago. Most people don’t see the merit of translating the hundreds of codes out there, since they think the codes don’t contain any useful information. When I enter pyramids or crypts, and break those wards, most of them are booby-trapped with ancient codes, so it’s the closest I get to translating. However, now that’s Voldemort back, people are beginning to realize that perhaps Old Magic might really be important, after all, that's how we think Voldemort got back into power."

"Then why aren't you at a job translating?" asked Hermione.

Bill hesitated. "Let's just say that Dumbledore wanted me here.”

He immediately wished he hadn’t said anything because Harry looked alarmed and Ron immediately started hounding him for information – was there a threat at Hogwarts? Was another Umbridge coming back? Hermione said nothing, but the thoughtful look in her eyes made him think he was her next puzzle to solve. 

Bill held up his hand to silence his youngest brother. “When you join the Order, you can know. Until then, just be on your guard. There’s a new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Dumbledore didn’t get a say in his hiring. It seems like the Ministry wants to limit his power, so they’re doing everything they can to keep their eyes on him.”

“So you’re coming for protection,” Hermione said.

“Something like that,” said Bill, even though it was far from his true purpose. In fact, Bill’s purpose at Hogwarts was so secret, that only Dumbledore, Minerva, and Severus knew what his mission was. 

Bill turned back to his lesson plans, but he couldn’t ignore the knot in his stomach. Bill had cracked hundreds of codes in his career as a curse-breaker. He’d unlocked ancient mysteries and blocked centuries old curses. 

But he’d never been this scared.


	2. Rule 1: Make your own decisions

Chapter 2

Rule #1: Make your own decisions. 

“I believe it’s time to address another change to our faculty,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve already introduced Professor Weasley, who is taking over Ancient Runes from Professor Babbling. We wish her happiness in her retirement. And Professor Stevick has bravely dared to take on Defense Against the Dark Arts. We promise Professor Stevick that, despite assumptions, the position is not curse. We checked.”

Dumbledore paused to let the students laugh. It wasn’t a large round of laughter. Draco could tell that most of the students were anxiously waiting for dinner and didn’t care much about the new faculty. 

Draco was anxiously waiting for the whole Welcoming Ceremony to be over. He wondered if he shouldn’t just fake an illness and leave the hall. He’d always found the Sorting Ceremony and Welcome Feast to be a terrible bore. Other students enjoyed it. They liked watching the first years sweat as the Sorting Hat was placed on their heads and cheering for their house. They liked the pomp and ceremony to the start of a new school year. They liked catching up with their all their friends. They especially liked the food that was prepared – among the best in England.

Draco hated the first years. And he was bored with the celebration. And he didn’t really have friends to catch up with. And he was used to eating at the best restaurants in Europe – and, if he were being honest, he enjoyed eating more when he had a good book in hand. Something to focus his brain on. Something to mentally chew on. Something to distract from the awkwardness of family dinners because Narcissa was a cheating drug addict and Lucius cared too much about appearances to get a divorce. 

Draco eyed the side door. He wouldn’t even have to fake an illness to leave. At this point in his school career, he could pretty much do what he wanted without teacher interference. They were all afraid of him.

“I am very saddened to announce that Professor Vector will not be returning to teach Arithmancy this year,” Dumbledore said.

Draco turned his gaze to the Head Table. He’d noticed that Professor Vector wasn’t there, and that there was a new woman seated in her place. She was much younger than Vector had been, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She had blonde hair and a pretty face. She’d caught the attention of a lot of the older male students, and some of the female students as well. 

“Professor Vector was injured in an assault on her home,” Dumbledore said. 

There were several gasps throughout the hall, and now the students were paying attention. Draco felt his chest tighten. He had a feeling he knew what Dumbledore would say next, even though he hadn’t heard of the attack.

“She and her family were attacked by Death Eaters,” Dumbledore continued.

The gasps turned from shock to anger. Draco kept his face blank as several heads turned in his direction. There were other students with Death Eater parents, but none were as well-known as Lucius Malfoy. His escape from Azkaban had been in the news the entire summer. 

Draco ignored the looks, some glares, some smiles. His mind spun. He hadn’t heard anything about an attack on a Hogwarts Professor. It was a risky move for the Dark Lord. Vector was Muggleborn, yes, but her position offered her some connections and would create outrage in the public. 

Why, then, had she been attacked? Was it a personal vendetta disguised as a Death Eater assault? Or did the Dark Lord want her removed from the school?

“We wish our friend and teacher the best in her recovery, and we welcome Professor Claire Jameson who will take her place. Professor Jameson studied under Professor Vector right here in Hogwarts and went on to work at Gringotts after her graduation. She is well-qualified to teach, and I know her to have a sharp mind and a good heart.”

Dumbledore smiled at the professor. She ducked her head in a nod, her eyes large with all of the attention.

Draco frowned. If Dumbledore knew her, it wasn’t likely she was a Death Eater plant. But why else would Professor Vector be attacked, if not to remove her from her position? He considered writing a letter to ask Lucius, but his father rarely provided that sort of sensitive information. 

Dumbledore turned back to the hall and paused. His face took on a strange expression, one that said he was going to be particularly obnoxious. He cleared his throat. “There is no denying that we are entering a dark period of our history, one in which bigotry and hate have been allowed to fester and grow in society. As such, I am pleased to announce that we are adding a new class to the curriculum. All sixth years and seventh years will be required to take a Debate Class which will be held Wednesdays after dinner. For far too long, our school curriculum has neglected to address the prejudice that has been long standing against wizards and witches of Muggle birth. It’s time that we as teachers help our students explore the differences of opinion expressed in the modern-day wizarding world in a safe and productive environment where each student can come to his or her own conclusions without the interference of friendly or familial prejudices'.”

There was a beat of silence. Draco stared at the Headmaster in horror. A debate class?

Dumbledore smiled benignly at the students, and then his eyes slid over to Draco. His lips curled up further, as if he was actually pleased with himself for such a horrible idea. 

Draco let out a slow, measured breath. The silence in the Great Hall reached a deafening crescendo and then – 

Chaos.

The Gryffindor table was the first to regain use of their vocal chords, and they burst into cheers. His house was next, reacting in anger and indignation. Draco held perfectly still as his classmates erupted into noise and motion. Swearing. Shouting. Fists were slammed onto the table. Other students jumped to their feet. 

The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables were last to react. They had the most mixed response. Some students froze in terror, their own existential angst paralyzing them. No doubt they had families who were split in the debate. Those who had stronger Pureblood ties reacted in anger – swearing, cursing, scoffing. Those who were of Halfblood families, or were Muggle sympathizers, joined the Gryffindors in cheering.

That was not to say every Gryffindor was in approval. Draco could see those students of old Pureblood stock keeping silent, not sure how they felt. And not every Slytherin was against it. Beside him, Blaise Zabini began cheering, in full support of the measures. 

Draco wasn’t against debating politics, but he didn’t care to argue politics with his classmates. He’d heard the political debate most students his age engaged in. They regurgitated the lines of their parents. They repeated propaganda. They used straw-man arguments and circular logic. They resorted to anecdotal evidence or story-telling to prove their erroneous points of view. They refused to admit when they’d been bested. It was ugly, painful, and pointless. 

Draco tried to ignore the chaos around him. He thought about time travel. He thought about potions. He thought about the historical ramifications of the Ancient Magical Wars in Egypt and his fingers tapped out a portion of the Phoenix Concerto on the table, an attempt to channel the anxious energy that swept through him.

Dumbledore let the turbulence go for far too long. Draco watched as the arguments between students grew, some shouting, some swearing. A few of the younger students, the sniveling first years, eyes too big and scared, began crying. Draco looked to the dozen transfer students that had switched to Hogwarts. They appeared to be just as frightened as the first years. Draco felt a distant sort of pity for them. Apparently there were still parents in England who idolized Albus Dumbledore, and thought him to a be beacon of safety and protection. They’d transferred their children in, thinking it’d be safer. Draco scanned the hall and counted up the missing faces. There were two dozen students who had been transferred out of Hogwarts. No doubt those parents had become wise to the mortal peril their children were in by attending school with Harry Potter. At least one life-threatening event a year. 

Dumbledore finally flicked his wand and a burst of lightning flashed throughout the hall, momentarily pausing the arguments. 

“Here’s to a very successful year,” he said and raised his goblet. At his toast, the tables began to magically fill with food – roasted meats, savory vegetables, buttery potatoes, and warm, fresh-baked breads. 

The distraction worked. The shouting calmed into conversation and then faded into murmurs as the students dove into the feast. 

Draco felt his stomach twist at the smell of the food. The anxiety of debate class mixed with the heavy scent of dinner only served to make him nauseous. Draco would be forced to play a part, would be forced to defend a point of view he was begin to question. He hated the thought of being nothing more than a pawn in his life.

He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, easy to drink and easy on the stomach. Blaise passed him a platter of lamb – assuming his empty was plate was because the other students were hogging the dishes. For appearances sake, he gave himself a small portion of lamb. He filled the rest of his plate with soft vegetables and bread – simple enough to digest, even with his gut churning the way it was. 

Dumbledore’s words played over in his head. ‘It’s time that we as teachers help our students explore the differences of opinion expressed in the modern day wizarding world in a safe and productive environment where each student can come to his or her own conclusions without the interference of friendly or familial prejudices.’

"What are you thinking?" asked Blaise Zabini next to him.

Draco recited the little snippet of speech bounding around in his head. It was only when he took a swig of pumpkin juice that he realized Blaise was staring at him. 

"You remembered Dumbledore's speech?"

"Paraphrasing," Draco lied with a shrug. He could have recited the entire speech. "Though it's pretty close. He definitely used the 'familial prejudices' line. I remember because he looked straight at me when he said it. I swear, the old man thinks I'm already like my old man."

Ah, the joys of redirection. Blaise immediately looked sympathetic; he was, after all, from a neutral family. His parents didn’t care which side he chose. Draco wished he could say the same about his family.

He pulled out his course schedule, eager to distract himself. It was all in order. NEWT Potions, NEWT Transfigurations, Advanced Arithmancy, NEWT Ancient Runes, Herbology for Potion-Making, and NEWT Defense Against the Dark Arts. Yes, it was all in order. He took a few moments to mentally plan out his grades. It wasn’t easy to get straight E’s and make it look natural. He plotted out which days to get Acceptables on his papers and tests (usually around Quidditch games because it was expected he wouldn’t be studying that much) and what days to get Outstandings to bolster the grade (in the beginning of the week, when the students had the weekend to study). 

Down the table, a shout rang out. “My mum’s a Muggleborn, you bastard.”

Draco glanced over. Two third years were getting into a fight. He could see Nott and Goyle egging them on. Snape quickly stepped from the head table, ready to intercept. He wasn’t quite fast enough. A fist was thrown; a curse was cast. A pitcher of pumpkin juice toppled over – the orange liquid splattering down the table. Draco yanked his schedule out of the way. His dinner plate and sleeve were splashed; as was Blaise beside him. 

Snape grabbed the two boys and hauled them away. Draco flicked his wand to vanish the stains on his sleeve. His dinner was unsalvageable. He didn’t bother getting a new plate, just pushed it away from him and leaned his head in his hands. His hair spilled over his face. It was getting long. Lucius wanted him to cut it, but Draco resisted. His small act of rebellion had confused Lucius. Hadn’t he always given Draco what he wanted? What could possibly lead to such disobedience?

Draco wasn’t entirely sure himself. It wasn’t even that he liked long hair, he just… wanted to make his own decisions for a change. 

Lucius had forced him to attend a few Death Eater meetings over the summer – small meetings, more soirees than official conferences. Lord Voldemort had not been in attendance, but Draco had seen enough to question their allegiance to him. But it wasn’t as if he could actually talk to Lucius about it. Any time he raised a doubt, no matter how sound, no matter how small, his father acted as if he were about to move in the Weasleys’. 

Draco snorted and glanced over at the Gryffindor table. As if. He watched the Golden Trio, still smug in their victory from last year. The other students had all but fallen over themselves to congratulate them for getting rid of Umbridge. Not that Draco mourned her removal. But it felt like something had shifted in the school, like Draco was no longer on the most powerful side. The inclusion of the new teachers only proved that. 

Draco glanced to the Head Table, where the new teachers were sitting with Dumbledore. Bryant Stevick, in charge of Defense Against the Dark Arts had been a Ministry pick, but he was a nobody. His grandmother had been Patricia Hayworth, the only daughter of an old Pureblood family, but their fortune had been dwindling since the mid-1800s. Patricia had married a wealthy Muggleborn in hopes to keep some standard of living, but that money had been lost too. Stevick was an easy pick for the Ministry to make – ties to a Muggleborn to appease those that wanted more magical integration, but with an old-money tie to appease the Purebloods. 

Draco had seen him before. Stevick attended many of the concerts and benefits that the old Pureblood families sponsored for various charitable purposes. Draco had formed the impression that he was someone who craved the good standing that had once been lost to him. Draco just wasn’t sure what side Stevick would end up on. Would he side with Death Eaters at a chance to reclaim his family’s fame? Or did he think Dumbledore was the safer option?

Draco slid his gaze over to Claire Jameson. He still wasn’t sure about her, but he'd have the opportunity to study her during Arithmancy class. He wanted to know if she was a lackey of Dumbledore or the Dark Lord. 

Draco looked at the third new teacher, the one that gave him the most pause. Bill Weasley, the eldest child of Arthur and Molly Weasley. Unlike his parents, Bill Weasley had made a good living for himself as a curse breaker. It showed in his clothing, bright indigo robes over a gold oxford and black trousers. They were trendy clothes of moderate expense. Paired with the braided hair and dangling skull earring, it gave him a rocker-chic vibe that Draco figured was intentional. It was a ridiculous look, in his opinion, but at least it was a look. The rest of the Weasley family looked like they’d grabbed clothing from a decades-old donation bin.

Draco frowned. He doubted that Bill Weasley had gotten his position by merit alone. While he was a well-known curse-breaker, he had no teaching experience. So either Dumbledore was doing the family a favor by employing him, or there was another purpose to his position. 

He watched Weasley say something to Dumbledore and then glanced out over the hall. His eyes met Draco’s. Draco waited for the professor to look away, most people did, but this Weasley didn’t. He maintained the eye contact. 

Draco narrowed his eyes into a glare. Weasley’s eyes crinkled at the corner, like he was fighting a smile. Draco wondered if he was being mocked. He felt Blaise poke his shoulder and took the opportunity to look away. 

Blaise was saying something about a Quidditch match he’d seen over the summer. Draco listened to his story – light-hearted and frivolous – and felt a stirring of envy for Blaise’s life. What would it be like to spend a summer with his family, complaining about the little annoyances or laughing at something stupid a cousin had done? Instead, Draco had been choked with indoctrination and poorly disguised propaganda.

It didn’t matter. Draco had seen through the lies and hyperbole. He wasn’t going to be fooled so easily. If he took the Dark Mark, like his father planned for him next summer, he was going to do it out of his own free will. No one was going to decide for him.

And that was a good rule for the Dissenter’s Code. 

Rule number one: Make your own decisions. 

* * *

Bill listened to Dumbledore's advice, then nodded. "I think I've got it, Headmaster. After all, I've cracked the Ramses Curse in three seconds flat, how hard can a bunch of kids be?" The joke was for his own benefit because he was nervous, about as nervous as he had been entering a pyramid on his own for the first time. 

Dumbledore must have caught on to what he was feeling because he reached out and patted his arm. “I'm sure you'll do fine, Bill. You were Head Boy after all."

Bill smiled and cast a look down the table at his fellow new teachers, wondering if any of them looked as nervous as he felt. Bryant Stevick, the DADA professor, seemed fully focused on his meal. Bill had spoken with him briefly upon arrival. Stevick seemed strangely bored at the prospect of teaching. Claire Jameson, the Arithmancy teacher, had expressed her own anxiety, making Bill feel a little less alone. She was a pretty woman with blonde hair and bright eyes and a voice so soft Bill wondered how she was going to be heard in the classroom. She was currently in conversation with Flitwick. He appeared to be giving her some teaching tips. 

Three new teachers in the same year was unusual for Hogwarts, as were the dozen or so new students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. It was a surprise so many students had transferred in because nearly twenty had been transferred out. Bill knew their parents were trying to decide what school could provide the most safety for their students in the midst of the unrest. Some parents thought Dumbledore offered the best chance at protection, while others thought the opposite. Bill glanced over the Great Hall and wondered if any of them would be proven right or wrong over the course of the next school year. 

His gaze caught on someone looking his way. Bill blinked in surprise. Draco Malfoy was openly watching him, not at all abashed in being caught staring.

Bill remembered all the stories Ron had told him, trying to convince Bill that the Slytherin was evil incarnate. Even Snape had a warning. The Potions Master had given him a few words of advice in handling the rowdier students. When Bill asked about Draco, Snape's gaze had narrowed, but he’d only said “watch yourself around him”. 

It was hardly helpful advice, so Bill settled for staring right back at the boy. Draco narrowed his eyes in a truly impressive glare, but Bill didn’t blink. The impromptu staring match ended when the boy next to Draco nudged him and asked a question. The eyes held for a moment longer and then the icy gaze slid off of him and onto his friend. 

Bill worked in a field, or had worked in a field as of two months ago, where attention to detail meant the difference between life and death, so when the Malfoy heir turned away, Bill did his own studying. He noticed the all black clothes, the black bag, and the black wand kept close to his hand, an intimidation factor. He squinted slightly to make out the boy’s features. With all of the stories told about him, Bill expected someone who looked older. But Draco Malfoy looked his age, maybe even a little younger. He had the pale, sharp features that the Malfoys were known for. Lucius and Narcissa were an attractive couple, and Draco had inherited their good looks, as well as their money. Bill remembered enough of school to know that the combination of looks and money would make Draco popular among the students, but he also knew that popularity wouldn’t be entirely genuine. Bill had been popular as well, but he’d been awkward-looking as a teen and he had no money to his name. He liked to think his popularity was build on sincere friendships. 

Bill pulled himself from his musings and tucked into his meal. He hadn’t inherited the joy of cooking his mother possessed, and living on his own for so long meant he was starved for good food. Hogwarts had some of the best. 

His gaze flickered once or twice to the sixth-year girl sitting at the Ravenclaw table. She was one of the transfer students. She’d been homeschooled up until now, but as her mother was ill and couldn’t teach anymore, she’d been sent to Hogwarts. She appeared to be making friends. She was currently talking to Luna Lovegood and another Ravenclaw boy.

She glanced to the head table. Her lips twitched up in a smile. Bill forced himself not to return it. 

Their mission was all about secrecy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying the story! As always, this is an edited version of The Code originally posted on fan fiction.net. I am editing and commenting on the process as I go over on that site. This chapter took a little longer than I wanted because I did way more editing that I thought I would, lol.


	3. Rule 2: Never reveal your strengths.

Chapter 3

Rule #2: Never reveal your strengths. They will only be used against you.

Draco loathed the first day of class. It was pointless. The professors handed out the course curriculum and then spent the entire class period reading from it – as if the students were incapable of reading it. Some of the professors even shared their hobbies or facts about their home life in an attempt to be relatable. 

This year, the professors took sharing to a new level. Some of them revealed if they were Muggleborn, or had Muggleborn family members. They talked about their hopes for the future – that the next generation would grow up to be inclusive and accepting of all backgrounds. They urged students to come to them if they were being bullied, or if they needed to talk about their homelife, particularly if they were being pressured into ‘joining any political movements’ that made them uncomfortable. 

Draco knew they didn’t mean it. At least, not for him. They probably did mean it for the Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs that had Pureblood families with Death Eater ties. Those were students who deserved saving. The Slytherin House was considered to be beyond reach.

Draco watched his classmates suffer through insincere platitudes and wondered if some of them wouldn’t benefit from support. Blaise was an outlier, already pledged to the cause of Muggleborn equality, unlike any other student in sixth year. Some of his classmates were simply too immature to be reached by debate and facts. They needed more time, more life experience. Crabbe and Goyle were perfect examples. They didn’t have the brightest minds. They simply regurgitated what they were told. They believed the propaganda fed to them. They would have supported any cause that had reached them first. If their parents had been Muggle-lovers, they’d be staunch supporters of Potter right now. 

Indoctrination on both sides, Draco figured.

He went to bed miserable and got up the next morning in a similar mood. The second day of classes were even worse because the ‘first day’ ritual started all over again, just with new classes. Draco entertained himself by imagining what would happen if he actually went up to the teachers and said, ‘Hello, I need help escaping the cult my family has joined. I’m supposed to get the Dark Mark at the end of the school year, but tattoos just really aren’t my thing.’

The professors wouldn’t believe him. They’d think he was joking. Or that he was spy.

And honestly, Draco didn’t know what he wanted to do. 

A wave of self-hatred washed over him, burning through his stomach and tightening his lungs. Here he was, an actual genius, and he had no idea what to do about the largest political issue of his time. Why was it so easy for everyone else? Was he truly a genius, or was he a simpleton on the level of Crabbe and Goyle? 

It would have been easier to decide if he’d been born one day earlier. Lucius wanted him to get the Dark Mark on the last day of school, which was the day before his seventeenth birthday. When Draco turned seventeen, all the money in his personal vaults would transfer to his name. He’d have enough money to live comfortably, away from everyone, and finally figure things out on his own. But if he refused the Dark Mark the day before, Lucius would clear his vaults. He’d be left with nothing, alone and penniless. And no one would help him. He might even be hunted, killed. 

Draco sighed, heavily, and made his way to the Ancient Runes classroom. 

Draco hadn’t taken Ancient Runes last year. It had conflicted with another class. He’d petitioned for use of a Time Turner, but had been denied, despite the fact that Granger had gotten one in third year. Apparently his reputation as a trouble-maker made him a less-than-ideal candidate for the device. 

The classroom had been heavily decorated with pictures of ancient sigils and runes. A few of the pictures were of Professor Weasley and his team of code-breakers, standing in front of warded doors or locked crypts. Draco could pick out most of the languages, though there were some he hadn’t learned of yet. 

The other students filed in and began exclaiming over the pictures. Draco counted eight Ravenclaws (two were transfer students, one from Beauxbatons and one girl who’d been homeschooled), two Hufflepuffs, and three Gryffindors. No other Slytherins were in the class. Draco slumped into a desk in the back of the room. He was suddenly regretting his decision to join the class. He enjoyed the subject, but he doubted he could stomach the company for two years. He idly wondered if it wasn’t too late to drop the course. Maybe he could take Astronomy instead. 

“Good afternoon, class!” Professor Weasley announced, entering the room and shutting the door behind him. He practically bounded up to the front of the room, clearly enthused. He didn’t sit behind his desk, rather stood, and surveyed the room. “You all look ready to fall asleep. Let me guess. You’ve spent the last two days reading course curriculums and it was a waste of everyone’s time.”

There was silence in the room. The students glanced to each other. 

Weasley smiled. “It’s alright, I promise not to tell anyone. But I used to sit where you are now, and I remember how boring the first day of classes were.”

Draco sat up just a touch straighter. Some of the other students laughed. 

“We do need to go over class rules, and take a peek at what we’ll be learning this year, but I thought it might be more fun if we made it a game. Who wants to play?” Weasley asked.

Several hands shot into the air. 

“Brilliant. You’ll need a partner for this, so let’s have you pair up and push your desks together.”

Draco immediately knew what was going to happen, even before the sound of desks scraping over the wooden floors as the students pushed them together. The Ravenclaws had equal numbers, as did the Hufflepuffs. There were three Gryffindors, and as he expected, that only left Hermione Granger without a partner. She glanced around, looking for anyone else to partner with, her face set in a frown.

Draco didn’t move. Neither did she. The other students settled into their pairs and then turned to watch the stand-off.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Professor Weasley. “Please move next to Hermione. She’ll be your partner today.”

Here it was. The time to put on the Malfoy attitude and see how far he could push the new teacher. Draco leaned back in his chair and sneered. He was rich and attractive. His father was powerful. He had no reason to follow directions when they didn’t suit him. 

"I don't work with mudbloods," he drawled, and then flipped his head to the side to clear his hair from his eyes. He saw Hermione stiffen at the derogatory term. Her cheeks flushed in anger.

Weasley didn’t outwardly react. He just met his gaze and held it. "You will not use that language in this class.”

“And how am I supposed to know that if we haven’t gone over class rules yet?” Draco challenged.

“The entire school objects to such language. Surely you realize this. You are a Prefect, aren't you?"

Draco lifted an eyebrow.

"Now move next to Hermione.”

“Why can’t she move over here? I happen to like this spot.”

“Because I’m telling you to move and I’m the teacher,” Weasley said, and then he turned his back to retrieve a pile of note cards from his desk.

Draco stared for a split second. No one had ever taken his challenges so easily before. Snape let him get away with anything. Flitwick usually squeaked out a couple of phrases about respect. Hagrid fumbled out for a reason and Trelawney told him his days were numbered. Sprout pretty much ignored him. McGonagall had said that when he knew everything she had to teach, he wouldn’t have to listen to her. But Draco did know everything she had to teach. 

But this professor hadn’t tried to fight him. He’d simply informed Draco that he was the teacher and then left Draco to make his own decision, actually trusting that Draco could decide to behave or not. If Draco wasn’t so used to hiding his emotions, he would have grinned.

Draco picked up his bag, walked to the empty desk next to Hermione, and shoved it next to hers with a louder-than-necessary screech of wood on wood. He dropped into the chair and noticed Hermione's dark brown eyes blazing with indignation. He gave her a 'now really' look. She turned back to Bill with a flip of her hair and moved as far as possible away from him.

Bill passed out the notecards, looking a little surprised that Draco had acquiesced so easily, but not commenting on it. The game was simple. The class rules were written on the board in several different runic languages. Working in pairs, they were to translate the runes and turn in a completed copy to the professor. The team that had the fastest time with the greatest accuracy would win. 

If Draco had wanted, he could have easily won hands down, without anyone's help, but he was pretending to be a ‘straight E’ student. So while Hermione frantically scribbled on the notecards, working herself through the translations, completely ignoring his presence, Draco sat back and did translations in his head.

The rules were regular rules, no foul language, be on time, do your homework, etc., but there were catches to all of the rules. No foul language, unless you write it in runes. Be on time, but if you are late you are responsible to catch up on work, but there was no grade penalty. Do your homework, but if you have a time constraint you may turn it in late as long as it is no later than two classes late. The last one caught Draco by surprise. He stared at the board, reading it for what it was in two seconds time. Call me Bill.

The glyph used for Professor Weasley’s name was the symbol for a duck bill, and it took the others quite awhile to figure it out. Comprehension must have shown on his face because Weasley, who was walking about the room and giving hints where needed, stopped by his desk and asked, “Did you figure that one out already?” 

It would have been easy to say yes, to earn a faint bit of praise or respect from the professor. But Draco had been hiding his genius for years, wanting to remain unnoticed, afraid of how he’d be used and manipulated if he ever revealed it.

Rule number two: Never reveal your strengths. They will only be used against you.

“No,” Draco lied, “I haven’t learned that dialect yet.”

Professor Weasley – or rather, Bill – nodded. “That’s why you might want to work with your partner.” 

He walked back up to the front of the room and the first pair of students handed in their notecards. Draco and Hermione, unsurprisingly, were the last to finish. Bill reviewed the rules with them, pointing out a couple of common mistakes that were made. 

“Do you really want us to call you Bill?” one of the Hufflepuffs asked.

Bill nodded and perched on his desk. “I’m not really one for formalities. And being called Professor makes me feel too stodgy.”

He flicked his wand and distributed the course curriculum. Draco glanced through the syllabus, pleased that they’d be studying some dialects he hadn’t learned yet. 

“I trust that all of you can read and will review that on your own time. You are in a NEWT course, after all. Now, let’s jump into some review. Everyone open your books to the first chapter.”

Draco wasn’t a fan of the Weasleys as a whole, too Gryffindor, too idealistic, too obnoxious, but his opinion of Bill was steadily rising. He pulled out his book and settled in for an actual class. It wasn’t that interesting, as Draco remembered everything he read and didn’t need to review the basic runic languages, but it was far better than reading through the course curriculum. And Bill sprinkled in little facts and tidbits as he lectured, things that Draco hadn’t known – like how the languages developed differently depending on how they were written – either carved into rock or written on parchment. Bill held his attention to the end of class.

“For homework, read through the second chapter,” Bill instructed as the students packed up their bags. “We’ll have a quiz on it next class, although our winners for today, Diedre and Patrick, have automatic O’s.”

The two Hufflepuffs cheered. Beside him, Hermione shoved her things into her bag and all but fled his presence. Draco let the others file past him, not eager to fight the crowded halls of Hogwarts now that the day was done.

“Mr. Malfoy, a word?” Bill asked, catching his attention. He waved him up to his desk.

Draco cautiously approached, not sure what the professor wanted. Perhaps a lecture for calling Hermione a mudblood?

Bill rifled through his desk drawers and pulled out a green cloth-covered book. He handed it out. “I assumed that everyone already learned the Cretan dialect – which was the dialect used on the last rule. Since it appears your summer course didn’t cover it, you’ll have to learn it independently. Start with this book.”

Draco took the book and nodded. “Thank you, Professor Weasley.”

“It’s Bill. You don’t have to call me Professor Weasley, remember?”

It was funny, how Bill wanted to be addressed informally, but then defaulted to calling Draco ‘Mr. Malfoy’. Draco figured it was an attempt on the professor’s part to keep some level of distance between them. No doubt he hated the Malfoys as much as they hated the Weasleys. 

Draco shrugged. “You call me Mr. Malfoy.”

He watched Bill’s eyebrows rise in apparent surprise. 

“So I did,” Bill agreed. “Well, Draco, if you have any questions about the runes, just let me know. I’ll be happy to help.”

The professor sounded like he meant it, which either meant he was genuine, or a really good actor. Draco wasn’t sure which, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement and left the room. 

The halls were still crowded with students, relieved to have reached the end of the school day, and already complaining to each other about their classes. Draco rolled his eyes at their theatrics. The real work would begin tomorrow. 

OoOoO

Bill frowned as he watched Draco Malfoy exit his classroom. There was something the teen wasn’t tell him. He’d been certain that Draco had translated the ‘Call me Bill’ rule first. He’d been staring at the board, a quirk to his lips that suggested he found the rule somewhat amusing. But he denied even knowing the dialect, and there’d be no reason for him to lie. In fact, if he’d translated it that quickly, and without taking any notes, then he was a promising translator. And Bill couldn’t imagine a Malfoy ever hiding a talent. Lucius and Narcissa lorded their achievements over the rest of the world, taking them as proof that they were better than everyone else. And certainly Draco’s choice of language in class showed he bought into his parents’ elitism and bigotry. 

Bill wondered if he ought to assign partners next class. He would like to give the class freedom to choose, but it was likely that Hermione and Draco would be forced into a partnership otherwise. 

It wasn’t really fair to Hermione to consistently pair her with the Malfoy boy. Then again, he’d been rather quick to comply with Bill’s instructions, so perhaps it would all work out. Bill would just keep a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t being insulting. 

Bill packed up his things and headed to the teachers’ lounge, ready for a snack and butterbeer. Who knew teaching would be so stressful?

He pushed open the heavy door and was greeted with a loud cheer. He stopped short in surprise. All of the Hogwarts staff had gathered in the main room. A banner stretched across the room reading ‘Happy First Day of Teaching’ and underneath that, someone had added ‘Congratulations, You’re Still Alive!’ A large cake sat on the table underneath the sign, decorated in blue and yellow flowers. 

Bill laughed. Sprout gestured him forward to join Professors Stevick and Jameson beside the cake for a picture. 

“It’s technically the second day of teaching,” he pointed out, and then smiled as the camera flashed. 

“But yesterday you hadn’t taught all of your classes,” said McGonagall. “And so yesterday and today count as the first official day." 

The professors nodded in agreement. 

“One of you should cut the cake,” Flitwick said, holding out the pastry knife.

Stevick pulled away, looking disinterested in the celebration. Claire demurred, looking a little uncomfortable with all the attention. Bill stepped forward and claimed the knife from Flitwick. 

“Who wants a piece?” he asked.

The cake was half-chocolate, half-vanilla. He passed out pieces while McGonagall prodded the kettle for tea. Hagrid pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Bill added a splash to his cup of tea. 

"So, how was the first day?" McGonagall asked.

"Tiring," said Bill. "If I had known how much work it was, I think I would have been nicer to all of you."

Several of the other professors laughed. 

“You were never that much trouble,” McGonagall said. 

“Glad to hear it.”

“Any problems?” Sprout asked. “Some of the Ravenclaws can be a little high-strung. They get anxious if there’s not enough homework.”

There was more laughter. Flitwick, who was the Head of Ravenclaw House, smiled proudly behind his cake, clearly not too offended. 

“Nothing too terrible,” Bill said. “Overall the students have been attentive, but they’re probably just being nice as it’s my first-time teaching. Of course they may be lulling me into a false sense of security.”

“Watch out for the Hufflepuffs,” Sinistra said. “They’re the ones that come up with the most pranks.”

“It was Fred and George before them,” said Pince, with a sour look on her face.

“Please, don’t hold me responsible for them,” Bill said. He looked over at Jameson and Stevick. “How about you two?”

“Good, so far,” said Claire. “At least… I think it went well? No one complained, not that I think they’d actually complain to me, but it seemed okay?” She seemed unsure of her assessment and looked around for support.

“You’d know if they were unhappy,” Sprout told her, patting her arm. 

“And you, Bryant?” McGonagall asked.

Stevick started a little, like he was surprised the professors were talking to him. “What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine. Not really hard to teach, is it?” He picked up his cake and left the room, leaving the professors staring after him.

“So, he’s definitely a Ministry plant,” said Hooch.

Bill looked to her, startled that she said it aloud. The other professors didn’t seem that surprised by her bold declaration.

Hooch leaned in towards Bill and Claire. “The Ministry never liked Dumbledore, especially now that they learned about his decision to add debate class into the curriculum. They’d be happier if everyone just pretended the Pureblood and Muggleborn hostilities were non-existent.”

“Rolanda,” McGonagall cautioned.

“Bloody hell, Minerva, you know it’s true. They assigned Umbridge to this school and she outright tortured our students, not to mention attacked you. You think the Ministry would stop after that debacle, but here we are again, with another spy in our midst.”

Bill forced his expression not change at the word ‘spy’. 

“Spy?” Claire asked, voice wobbling and eyes going big.

“Not to worry, dear, the spy won’t be after you. Just the Headmaster.”

“Rolanda, really,” said McGonagall.

“And now the Death Eaters have gone and attacked Septima,” Hooch continued. She swiped at her eyes. “You think they’d send us someone who would actually help, not add to the terror.” She held out her cup so Hagrid could pour in more whiskey. She didn’t add any tea, just drank the whiskey straight. “In my opinion, the Ministry wants to take over the school. That way they can teach what they want, and what they want is blind obedience and ignorance and passivity. And both of you,” she gestured at Bill and Claire, “better watch out for him.” She gesticulated to where Stevick had left the party.

Bill turned to Claire, and she to him. Claire looked terrified. Bill was mainly concerned for Hooch. He didn’t remember her being so angry or bitter when he was a student.

“Oh, please,” McGonagall scoffed. “The only one that needs to be watching out is Albus, and you know he’s quite capable of caring for himself. Well, and Potter perhaps, but that’s only because a year doesn’t go by without something dramatic happening. Now, Rolanda, I really think you ought to take it easy on whiskey. Sybill, would you be a gem and put some coffee on?”

Trelawney blinked behind her glasses. “It’s not Potter this year that we should be concerned about. The stars are shifting in the sky. The planets have begun to misalign. And from the deep, a strange day is born, full of portent, full of might, and heralding the rise of something that is yet to be known.”

Bill felt a sudden chill pass over him. There was something thrilling and poetic about her words. No one else seemed to pay her any mind.

Pomfrey sighed. “I’ll get the coffee then, shall I? Come on, Hooch. That’s enough for you today.” She took Rolanda by the arm and pulled her away from the group. The flying instructor was a little unsteady on her feet. Bill wondered how long she’d been drinking.

McGonagall looked at Bill. “Septima and Rolanda were… well, Rolanda’s taking it hard.”

“I remember when they first met,” Sprout sighed. “Septima always with a nose in her books and Rolanda always on her broom, and nothing at all in common except their assurance that the other was an idiot.”

The other professors laughed and suddenly Bill realized that they weren’t talking about a friendship. His head jerked between the professors, because he’d had classes with both Hooch and Vector and never suspected a thing, much less a romance.

“Oh, they hated each other throughout your school years,” McGonagall reassured him. “They didn’t quite get their act together until… when was it exactly?”

“Potter’s first year,” Flitwick provided.

“Ah, yes. The troll incident. The first of many.”

“Can you imagine what it will be like when Potter’s finally graduated?” Sprout asked, with a dream-like expression on her face.

The other professors reacted in alarm. “Don’t say that!”

“We said that with your brothers, Fred and George,” McGonagall told Bill. “And then we got Potter, who is much better behaved but comes with even greater challenges.”

Snape sniffed from where he had secluded himself in a corner. “Better behaved? Speak for yourself.” 

Bill had noticed the Potions Professor had hung back in the celebrations. Normally Bill would have made it a point to say hello, but he was supposed to keep his distance. It would give his denials more credibility. Snape’s comment was ignored.

“I do wonder how Potter manages to learn anything at all with everything else that goes on in a schoolyear,” Flitwick mused. 

“Harry’s quite resilient,” McGonagall said, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips. “He’s a good heart, much like his parents.”

“Very different from other students.” Flitwick cast a dour look over to Snape.

Snape looked down his nose at the Charms Professor. “If you are referring to Draco Malfoy, might I remind you that the boy is a Prefect.”

“Only because you recommended him. Blaise Zabini would have been the better pick. You saw what he did with Umbridge. Terrorized the school. Bullied students and teachers alike. He’s too much like his father.”

“All picks for Prefects are approved by the Headmaster,” Snape said. “Perhaps you ought to take your concerns up with him.”

Flitwick harrumphed and took a large bite of cake.

“How has Malfoy been in class?” McGonagall asked Bill and Claire. 

“He’s been alright?” Claire said, making it more of a question than a statement. “I mean, he sat in the back of the class. And he looked bored? I don’t think he was paying attention.”

“He does that,” McGonagall reassured her. She looked at Bill next.

“We had a slight incident with language,” Bill admitted.

"He called Hermione a 'mudblood', didn't he?" asked Flitwick.

Bill nodded.

"'He's always picking on our 'ermione," said Hagrid. "She's a sweet lass, that girl. She don' deserve it."

"No one does," said Sprout.

"But that was it?" asked McGonagall. "That isn't too terrible.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Bill agreed. 

“I’ve learned to ignore his behaviors. Don’t give him any attention – that’s what he wants,” said Sprout. 

Flitwick shook his head. “You need to confront him. I’ve given him many a lecture on respect, not that any of it seems to sink in.”

“We could tell you horror stories, but there’s no point in scaring you two,” McGonagall said. “Just understand there’s no shame in getting frustrated with him. We’ve all been there and we’re here for you if you need help. Now, who wants seconds?” She stood and crossed to the cake. 

Bill declined, but he did take another cup of tea. Hagrid poured in a hearty length of whiskey and Bill sipped it while listening to the other professors complained about their students – the ones who were too smart for their own good, the ones who fell asleep in class, the ones who perpetually turned in their homework late. How odd it was, to be on this side of the door, and not back in the student dormitories, complaining about the professors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the original work is posted on fan fiction.net where I am editing as I go, so if you're curious as to how it looked in the first draft, take a peek. If you're liking it so far, let me know!


	4. Rule 3: Know Thy Enemy

Chapter 4

Rule #3: Know thy enemy. 

Draco followed the rest of the sixth- and seventh-year students into the little-used lecture hall on the fourth floor. It had tiered seating set in a semi-circle around a large stage. It was large enough to fit half the school in the rows. Normally it was reserved for choral concerts or the amateur productions the Hogwarts drama club put on. Now it’d be hosting the first meeting of the ill-advised debate club. 

Draco climbed to the back row, wanting as much distance from the ridiculousness as possible. His sixth-year Slytherins filed in around him. Draco kicked his feet up on the seat in front of him and sat back in his chair. Crabbe and Goyle began charming paper birds, trying to get the constructs to fly over the heads of unsuspecting students and then drop splatters of ink over the victims. It was juvenile, perhaps, but unexpectedly amusing. 

Cassius Warrington, the most popular seventh year Slytherin, held his own court a few rows below. Draco watched what students flocked to his side. As a sixth year, Draco didn’t expect to command the seventh years’ attentions. They were technically already adults. They didn’t want to take orders or pay deference to a sixth year. As Lucius’ son, Draco could have demanded that Warrington cede his power to him. But Draco had never craved that much power, and the students Warrington attracted were simple bullies. They only knew how to use intimidation and brute force to get their way. Draco preferred subtler weapons, not blunt instruments. So he let Warrington have his court and his delusions of grandeur. The students with more insight, more brains than brawn, often ended up at Draco’s side.

He did note that Theodore Nott chose to sit with Warrington, on the outskirts, not fully in his ranks, but obviously trying to win over the older boy. It seemed Nott had grown weary of being reined in by Draco. It was a pity, really. It wasn’t that Nott was stupid; quite the contrary. His grades were typically O’s, and never less than an E. He could have learned a lot from Draco, but he was impulsive and reckless. He chafed under Draco’s direction. Well, he was welcome to try Warrington’s brand of chaos, but there was a reason why Warrington wasn’t as feared as Draco. Warrington was too obvious in his attacks. It was easy for the professors to identify Warrington as the culprit of his crimes, and often times they fooled his plots before they even came into fruition. He had no concept of the long-game. 

Still, if Nott left Draco’s side, more students might defect. Draco mentally counted up the loss of his pawns and frowned. It wouldn’t be good. He felt a pang in his temples and reached up to rub his head. 

“It’s the company, isn’t it?” Pansy Parkinson asked, sauntering up the steps to his row. She shooed Goyle away so she could claim the chair next to him and reached over to stroke a hand through his hair. “All this stupidity, it gives me a headache too.”

Now that school hours were over, she – like the other students – had changed out of her uniform. But while most students had dressed for comfort, Pany had dressed for attention. She wore a short black dress that clung to her curves and exposed most of her legs. Her black hair was sleek and straight and fell attractively down her back. Her makeup was expertly applied, emphasizing her dark eyes and full lips. Draco let his gaze sweep over her. Pansy was the type of beautiful that deserved extended study, and Pansy liked to be appreciated.

“You’ve been distant,” she said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I’m not the one that’s been holed up in Wiltshire’s bed.”

Pansy’s eyes flicked over to the seventh-year boy currently sitting next to Warrington. She shrugged a shoulder. “He has his uses.”

“Has or had?” Draco asked. 

Pansy’s lips slid into a wicked smile, revealing perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “Are you asking if I’m available? Why, Draco Malfoy, do you miss my company?”

“Always,” Draco promised, but both of them knew it was a lie. Although both of their families expected them to marry, and although they had dated, he and Pansy were better suited as friends. And occasionally friends-with-benefits. 

Draco tipped his head towards Nott and Pansy followed his gaze. 

Her smiled turned cold. “Well, that’s a problem for you, isn’t it?”

“You could help.”

“What’s in it for me?”

It was Draco’s turn to shrug. “Let’s say I’ll return the favor.”

Pansy gave him a long look, then tossed her hair back. “Well, alright then.” She got to her feet and sashayed over to Wiltshire. She tucked herself underneath his arm and gazed at him in expertly feigned adoration. 

Draco sat back as McGonagall strode to the center of the stage, feeling slightly easier. Pansy wasn’t a full ally, but she’d alert him to anything truly problematic. 

McGonagall cast a quick flash charm to quiet the room. It took a few minutes for the room the settle.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you and welcome to your first Debate Class. This is meant to be a safe and respectful environment where you can engage in productive conversations. Bullying will not be tolerated. Insults will not be tolerated. Intimidation and threats will not be tolerated.” Her eyes flickered to the back row where Draco was sitting. “I hope that’s quite understood.”

“Bloody hag,” Draco muttered. He dropped his head back to stare at the ceiling, an angry flush stealing up his neck and face. Why was he always targeted with these sorts of lectures? Yes, he’d been in scraps before, but he was hardly the worst offender in the school. 

“The main issue we face today is the prejudice against Muggleborn witches and wizards,” McGonagall continued. “As such, you will be divided into three groups depending on your beliefs. Those of you who believe Purebloods are inherently superior will meet in your own group, and those who believe in equality will meet in another. These two groups will meet every Wednesday to prepare for the first debate, which will take place before Christmas break. If you are undecided, you will join the Neutral Party. You will have the ability to move from group to group to observe their preparation and to ask questions. You will not have to participate the debate, but you will be assigned a paper outlining what you have learned. A second debate will be held in the spring semester. 

“The first debate will cover the current topics that are being debated in our government at this time – such as Muggleborn restriction acts and the proposed Pureblood/Muggleborn marriage laws. The second debate will tackle the larger issues, including the war with Lord Voldemort.”

Gasps echoed about the room at McGonagall’s use of the Dark Lord’s name. Draco could see some students turn a bit pale. 

McGonagall flicked her wand and three sheets of parchment flew up to the front board. “Please sign your name under one of the groups and be sure to take the instructions’ page that applies to your group and then you are dismissed. That is all.”

She stepped away, gesturing for the board. It didn’t surprise Draco that the Golden Trio were the first to step up to the board and sign their names for the Equality Group. They were followed by a good deal of Gryffindors. Warrington pushed his way through the throng to put his name on the Pureblood Superiority Group. His posse of Slytherins trailed behind him. 

Draco’s Slytherins turned to him and he waved them on. He didn’t move himself; he just watched the students sign up for the groups, mentally checking to see if he had made any wrong assumptions. He’d only misjudged two – a Ravenclaw and a Hufflepuff. 

His gaze fell on Blaise, hanging in the back of the crowd. His hands were clenched and his was bouncing a little bit on his toes, clearly agitated.

“Don’t do it, Zabini,” Draco whispered, sitting up in his seat. “Don’t be a fool.”

But Blaise didn’t hear him, or obey him. He vacillated for another minute, but once there was an opening for the board, he stepped up and assigned himself to the Equality group. 

It took a moment for the other students to notice. It started with some stares and grew into nudges and whispers. It finally alerted the other Slytherins, who were still grouped around the Pureblood Superiority page. 

“Blood traitor!” Nott yelled. He lunged forward, but Warrington caught his arm and pulled him back. McGonagall, who’d been standing by the doorway, began making her way towards the group of the Slytherins. 

Draco looked to the Gryffindors. They were staring at Blaise in suspicion, because it’d be just like a Slytherin to join their group to spy. But Draco knew that Blaise was honest in his support. But honesty wouldn’t keep the other Slytherins from turning on him. Blaise would need new friends for protection if he hoped to make it out of sixth year without being hexed into oblivion. 

Draco could make that happen.

And in doing so, he’d help his own reputation. 

A win-win, really. Although the odds of him getting a detention were stronger than he’d like. 

Draco left his chair and stalked down the stairs, towards the front of the room, where Blaise was poised, caught between Gryffindors and Slytherins. All the students saw Draco coming, he made sure of it, hitting the soles of his shoes hard on the wooden steps, making his footsteps echo. He twisted his expression into one of rage and the students pulled back, trying to get away.

Blaise turned at his approach, his eyes growing wide. They had a tentative friendship, but Blaise must know his decision today had changed things. Draco reached Blaise’s side, grabbed his arm, and yanked him away from the throng. Blaise didn’t protest, not even when Draco shoved him against the far wall. 

“What the hell are you thinking?” Draco demanded. He kept one eye on Blaise, the other on the crowd to gauge their reaction. 

“I’m not changing my mind,” Blaise blurted out. “Voldemort’s wrong. Blood purity doesn’t matter. It’s not even a real thing. There’s no correlation between strength of magic and family blood lines. Pureblood superiority is a lie perpetuated by the elite to maintain their power and wealth.”

“You sound quite determined.”

“I am. I’m not changing my mind. I believe in equality, and if that means we can’t be friends anymore, then so be it.”

Draco flicked his gaze over to the Gryffindors. They were still huddled together, still casting suspicious eyes at Blaise.

Draco pulled his wand and held it at Blaise’s throat. The other boy swallowed hard and looked up at him, eyes beseeching. “Draco?”

“You should have made friends with Potter and the rest before losing my friendship,” Draco told him. “Because right now, the Gryffindors don’t believe that you’re genuine and the Slytherins are out for blood.”

Blaise’s face paled. His eyes darted between Draco and the rest of the students. He saw his predicament now – no one was coming to help him. He licked his lips. “What are you going to do?”  
Draco grabbed his collar and slammed him against the wall. Blaise yelped and Draco shoved his wand underneath the soft point of his jaw. 

“Hey, Malfoy!” Potter started forward, finally realizing that the Slytherin who’d signed for equality was getting accosted. 

But Potter wasn’t moving fast enough. He didn’t seem that worried for Blaise, and Draco wanted Potter to be as scared as the Slytherins were angry. 

Draco heaved a sigh. “It’s too early for detention.”

“Wha-?”

Blaise’s question was cut off as Draco yanked him from the wall and threw him to the ground. Blaise grunted in pain, someone in the throng of students screamed, and Draco raised his wand with a superfluous flourish, trying to buy Blaise more time and to keep his own sentence light. If he actually managed to curse Zabini, he’d be looking at weeks of detentions. 

Thankfully Potter wasn’t a complete idiot. He jumped forward with a shout. “Expelliarmus!”

Draco let the spell hit. He was knocked back a couple of steps. His wand was ripped from his hand and went clattering across the floor. The Slytherins shouted and jumped forward, more than ready to come to Draco’s aid, but then the teachers were there, pushing everyone back and separating the students.

“This is completely unacceptable!” McGonagall declared. “Thirty points from Slytherin. Mr. Malfoy, detention this Saturday. There will be no acts of violence or physical aggression in the class. Is that understood?”

Draco watched Potter extend a hand to Blaise, helping him to his feet. Blaise rubbed his shoulder. He turned to Draco, an expression of disbelief and hurt on his face. It was that expression of betrayal that finally convinced the Gryffindors that Blaise was sincere. Granger put her hand on Blaise’s arm, her own face full of sympathy. Weasley stepped in front of Blaise, shielding him from Draco’s line of sight. Potter kept his wand in one hand and glared at Draco. His intention was clear. He’d take on the whole Slytherin class if needed. 

Draco let out a breath. Blaise had protection now.

“Mr. Malfoy!” McGonagall snapped, dragging his attention back to the professor. 

“Understood,” he said, stepping back and raising his hands to show he wasn’t a threat. He retrieved his wand and walked back to the desks. He dropped into a chair and kept a sneer on his face as the rest of the students signed up for their groups. 

Blaise was well surrounded by Gryffindors now, and a handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Draco watched as he was greeted with handshakes and back-slaps and smiles all around. If anything, he seemed to be a bit of a celebrity. Draco was surprised by a sudden pang of loneliness. He’d been alone most of the summer and had found it enjoyable, even preferable. But here, in a room full of people, a fourth of whom fawned over him and half of whom feared him, he felt strangely empty.

He pushed the emotion down as the last of the students signed their names and gradually exited the room. The teachers left as well, leaving Claire Jameson behind. She walked to the board and began removing the sign-up sheets.

"I haven't added my name yet," Draco said.

"Oh.” She stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

Draco pushed himself up and walked over to the board. The quill sat on the stand, waiting for him to take it. Draco paused at the sheets, pretending to study the names listed in each group when really he was studying the professor. 

Claire Jameson. He had her for Arithmancy. There was something about her that unnerved him. It was hard to pinpoint what exactly. 

She waited for him, patient and silent. She was a beautiful woman. Draco was used to being around beautiful women, and women who strived to be beautiful. Claire Jameson downplayed her looks in a way that most women of society didn’t. Her robes were modest. Her makeup simple. Her hair usually pulled back in a sensible bun or twist. And yet… as she waited for him, half-perched on an empty desk, her posture didn’t match her looks. Her back was arched, pushing her chest forward. Her lips were pursed slightly, to make them appear fuller. Her head was tipped down, so she could watch him from underneath thick lashes. 

Draco realized then what unnerved him. Her clothing spoke of modesty, but her posture was that of a woman well-versed in seduction. Draco was familiar with that posture. Narcissa used it; Pansy used it. There was a simple explanation for the mismatch of clothing and posture. Claire Jameson could be a naturally flirtatious woman who was trying to dress conservatively to fit in at the school. But she’d replaced a teacher who’d been the victim of a Death Eater attack. Draco was wary of her.

He picked up the quill and signed his name. 

“The neutral side,” Claire said. “I’m surprised.”

Draco immediately recognized the tone of voice. Like the body language, it was similar to his mother. Narcissa had a lilt to her voice, one developed over decades of flirtation. Even when she tried to talk normally, it still held edges of suggestion and innuendo. Claire’s voice was the same. 

Rule number three: “Know thy enemy,” Draco said, laying down the quill. He gave her wink, just to see what she’d do with it. 

She tsked. “Hardly sporting, Mr. Malfoy. I don’t think that’s the purpose of the class.”

“You aren’t going to tell on me, are you?”

“As teachers, we’re not to force anyone into a specific group, but we will be watching to ensure that the rules are being followed. There’s not to be any cheating.” She gave him a stern look, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Never,” Draco promised.

He left the room, puzzling over the new professor and silently cursing Blaise for earning him a Saturday detention.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

“Did you hear?” Ron demanded, bursting into Bill’s office.

Bill looked up from his notes. It was Thursday afternoon and he was trying to prep for his Friday lecture. The seventh-year NEXT class was terribly behind on their Ancient Greek Runes and Bill was going to have to find a way to squeeze in a week of review to get them back on track. It took him a moment to pull his brain back into English. “What?”

“About Ginny,” Ron prompted.

Bill felt a stirring of alarm. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“She’s gone bloody nutters, that’s what’s wrong with her!” Ron put his hands on his hips, looking not unlike their mother in that moment. “She’s dating. Already! We’re not even a week into school, and she’s got some boy-toy carrying her books for her. And guess who it is?”

Bill blinked a couple of times. 

Ron ploughed ahead. “Liam O’Flannery, that’s who. He’s a seventh year, Bill!”

Perhaps it was stereotypical of the Weasley boys to be overprotective of their younger sister, but that didn’t stop them. Bill had been guilty of it himself, at least until he was out of the house and suddenly realized how much of a mother hen he’d been. Since then, he’d made it a point to be a friend to his younger siblings instead of another authority figure. Charlie and Percy had both followed his example – rather, Charlie had followed his example. Percy had all but vanished from the family. 

But his younger brothers hadn’t learned that skill yet. They still felt the need to boss their younger siblings around or to act as a secondary parent. Ginny, as the youngest and as the only girl, got the brunt of it. Bill wondered if her dating habits hadn’t developed just to drive her brothers crazy. Ever since last year’s Yule Ball, she’d been garnering a good deal of attention from the boys at Hogwarts. She’d gone on a half-dozen dates last year – if trips to Hogsmeade while under school supervision could be called ‘dates’. It’d freaked out Ron, Fred, and George, who didn’t want their younger sister dating. And it didn’t help that in a half-year, Ginny had gone on more dates than any of her brothers had in one.

Bill put his quill down and looked at Ron. “What do you want me to do about it?” 

“Stop her, of course.”

“I hardly have the authority to do that.”

“You could give her detentions.”

“I’m not going to give her detentions just to keep her from dating. She’s allowed to date.”

“Is she allowed to date a seventh year?”

Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “If you’re that concerned about it, you can let her actual parents know. I don’t want to be brought into the middle of this.”

“You aren’t the least bit concerned?”

“It’s not that I’m not concerned,” Bill clarified, “I just believe she’s capable of making her own decisions. And if she makes a bad choice, well it’s better that she makes them here, while she’s safe at school.”

“So you agree it’s a bad decision.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You should tell that it’s a bad idea. She listens to you.”

“She listens to me because I listen to her. Maybe you should try it.”

Ron glowered, clearly unconvinced. “I’m writing mum.”

He turned on his heel and left. Bill sighed and turned back to his lesson planning, hoping that their mother would be more reasonable about it. 

His hope was in vain. He got the owl the next morning at breakfast. 

_ Bill – _

_Ron says that Ginny’s dating a seventh year. We’re concerned she might be taken advantage of, dating such an older boy. Your father and I hope that you’ll look into it and keep her safe. It wouldn’t hurt to check into anyone that she’s seems interested in and steer her clear of any ill-advised relationship. She does listen to you after all. Maybe you could convince her just to focus on her studies this year. _

_How comforted we are knowing that you’re at school to keep an eye on her and Ron!_

_Love, _

_Mum ___

_ _Bill was not going to convince her of anything, but he wasn’t sure how to tell his mother that. He spent an hour in his office late that evening, trying to compose a reply, but scrapping each one. He was either too flippant or too annoyed, too direct or too soft. _ _

_ _McGonagall found him at his desk, a collection of balled-up parchment in the bin. “Albus wishes to see you, Bill.”_ _

_ _There was something pinched about her expression. It reminded Bill that he wasn’t just at Hogwarts to teach, and suddenly setting boundaries with his mother about Ginny’s dating habits seemed entirely trivial. He nodded, tossed the latest attempt into the bin, and left for the Headmaster’s office._ _

_ _Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, sucking on a lemon drop. Snape sat in one of the over-stuffed armchairs in front of the desk. His face was pale and haggard. Dark circles were carved under his eyes. _ _

_ _“Have a seat, Bill,” Dumbledore said. “Would you like a lemon drop?"_ _

_ _"No, thank you," said Bill, taking the other chair. “I take it we’re not here to discuss teaching.” _ _

_ _Snape shifted slightly. “The Dark Lord knows there is a spy among his followers. He questioned me this evening. Rather intently. I was able to taint the Veritaserum he gave me, which managed to assuage his doubts for now, but he won’t be satisfied for long.”_ _

_ _The Potions Master visibly forced himself to lean back and relax in his chair. Bill read the residual tension in his muscles and knew what the Potion’s Master wasn’t saying. He’d been tortured. Most likely the Cruciatus._ _

_ _“That’s why I’m here,” Bill said. “We’ve planned for this.” _ _

_ _The Order had known Snape’s position at a spy was precarious ever since the battle at the Ministry. Voldemort had not taken his defeat well. He’d lost several powerful allies to Azkaban, and it had infuriated him, and stoked the fire of paranoia. At times, he’d killed Death Eaters that he suspected were spies without even verifying the accusation. The Order knew it was only a matter of time before his suspicions turned to Severus. And based on Hogwarts’ history of terrible and criminal DADA professors, it’d be all too easy for Voldemort to sneak his own spy into the school to watch the Potions professor. The less Snape and Dumbledore were seen together, and the colder they acted towards each other, the safer Severus would be. _ _

_ _“I thought we’d have more time,” Dumbledore said, his voice somber. “Bill, what you’re about to do is dangerous. You put yourself at a great risk.”_ _

_ _“Severus has been risking himself for the past couple of years,” Bill said. “It’s someone else’s turn to step up. And we may never have this chance again.”_ _

_ _Dumbledore nodded. “Your assistance is most appreciated. Are you ready to activate the Mark?”_ _

_ _Bill rolled up his shirt sleeve and lay his left arm out over the Headmaster’s desk. _ _

_ _Dumbledore had devised a way to transfer part of Severus' mark onto Bill's arm. It was completely invisible, but it would allow Bill to feel when Voldemort was calling. With an invisibility cloak and other precautions to render him undetectable, Bill would be the new spy for the Order. Bill would encode the information he gleaned from spying on the Death Eater meetings and pass it along to Nymphadora Tonks, currently disguised as a student in his class. She would be able to relay that to Dumbledore and the right people at the Ministry, who took the threat of Voldemort seriously. She would also be able to contact Severus through her potions homework, allowing encoded instructions to be relayed to him without any face-to-face meetings with Dumbledore or McGonagall. It was rather roundabout, but Voldemort and the Ministry had put their men and women in Hogwarts before. Trust was something the Order could no longer afford to give. _ _

_ _Dumbledore held Bill’s arm in one hand and waved his wand over his skin. There was a slight burning sensation that faded into an itch, a constant, nagging sort of itch that made Bill feel like there was some foreign body in his arm. _ _

_ _Dumbledore let out a breath and release Bill’s arm with a sigh. “It’s done.” _ _

_ _Bill let out a breath as well, trying to calm his racing heart. He’d opened tombs, crawled into crypts, and broken wards on mausoleums, but this would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was going to spy on the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is a previously published/completed fic that I am editing over on fan fiction.net. If you wanted spoilers, you could check it out over there, but honestly, there's a reason I'm editing it, lol. Please leave a review if you enjoyed it. Or if you hated, I guess. That's only fair.


	5. Detention

Draco slouched into the second-floor detention room after breakfast Saturday morning. Like he expected, no other students were there. No one else was stupid enough to get a Saturday detention during the first week of school. He mentally cursed Blaise and slumped into one of the chairs. He dropped his bag on the desk. 

He didn’t know what teacher he had the misfortune to be stuck for the morning, so he’d brought a little bit of everything with him. Some teachers liked to assign meaningless work during detentions – having students write lines or an essay on why their behavior was not appropriate. For that eventuality, Draco had brought blank parchment and extra ink. Some teachers allowed students to use the time for homework, so Draco had brought his class books with him. Some teachers allowed for free time, so he’d packed a fun read as well – a travel narrative by Higgins Farthing who trekked through the Haunted Forest of Blackwell. 

Draco glanced at the clock. Whoever was on detention duty was late. Then again, they may not have expected any students. Draco pulled out his homework and started on his Transfigurations assignment. He was going to get at least some of it done.

The door opened nearly ten minutes past the hour and Bill strode in. His eyes widened.

“Bloody hell, I didn’t think anyone would actually be here.” The professor crossed to the front desk and put his bag down. He gave an amiable smile. “So, what’d you do to earn a detention in the first week of school? Remember, my brothers are Fred and George, so it’s got to be good to impress me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. The professor must already know what he’d done. Surely he’d listened to the gossip that spread around the teachers’ lounge. No doubt he was baiting Draco, waiting for him to confess to his crimes. 

Draco put his quill down and met the professor’s gaze. “I attacked Blaise Zabini after he signed to the Equality group in debate class.”

He watched the professor’s face fall, all trace of good humor gone. He blinked a couple of times, trying to formulate a suitable response. So, Bill hadn’t known then.

“Well,” said Bill finally, “I can see how that would earn you a detention. Might I ask what you were trying to accomplish with your attack?”

“Zabini signed up for the Equality group,” Draco reiterated, slower this time. 

“I heard you. I was asking why you attacked him.”

Draco was flummoxed for a moment. No one else had ever asked him _why_ he misbehaved. They simply assumed he liked causing trouble. Or assumed it was a tantrum because he didn’t get his way. Some assumed he was a bully and enjoyed inflicting pain. __

_ _Here was someone asking about his motives, for the first time in his life, and Draco couldn’t give him the real reason. If he admitted to protecting Blaise, it’d completely ruin his reputation, not to mention it’d get back to Lucius and then he’d really be in trouble. His father would see no point in protecting a blood traitor, not even if he was a friend. Malfoys didn’t have friends. They had associates and employees. Sometimes they had partners, when it was a well-suited match, but nothing that would breed loyalty outside of the family. Lucius would say he was soft, losing focus, getting sentimental. He might even pull him from Hogwarts, set him up with private tutors, and then Draco would have even less freedom._ _

_ _Draco felt the beginning edge of panic creep in at his thoughts. He swallowed it down and looked back up at the professor, trying to formulate a suitable response._ _

_ _“It’s okay if you didn’t have a reason,” Bill said, filling the silence that had descended. “We all act out of emotions every now and again. Were you angry at Blaise? Or feeling hurt?”_ _

_ _Draco snorted, he couldn’t help it. ‘Act out of emotions’, as if a Malfoy would ever be so plebian. He sat back in his chair. “Blaise chose the wrong group.”_ _

_ _“I don’t follow.”_ _

_ _Draco rolled his eyes. “I disagreed with his choice of group.”_ _

_ _“And you attack everyone you disagree with?”_ _

_ _“Obviously not.”_ _

_ _“So why did you attack him?”_ _

_ _“Why does it matter?”_ _

_ _Bill perched on the teacher’s desk. “You’re here, in detention, and the purpose of detention is correction. I can’t help you correct something I don’t understand, so I’m asking about your goal to the attack. What did you want in that moment?”_ _

_ _It must be Bill’s sincerity that was throwing Draco off his game. He didn’t usually struggle to come up with lies. But then again, the other professors had already formed their negative assumptions. It made lying easy because he could say anything to re-enforce that belief. _ _

_ _“There are consequences to choosing the wrong side. I was reminding him of that.”_ _

_ _“You were punishing him,” Bill surmised. _ _

_ _“Sure. Let’s go with that.”_ _

_ _“Why do you think you have the right to punish him?”_ _

_ _Draco shrugged. “If I hadn’t, someone else would have.”_ _

_ _“Did you want to attack him?”_ _

_ _“’Want’ is the wrong word.”_ _

_ _“What’s the right word then?”_ _

_ _Draco paused, trying to think of the way Nott or Warrington would describe their reasons to the attack. “It was my duty, perhaps?” He frowned a little. Nott might think it was his duty to put Blaise in his place, but Warrington would probably say it was his right, his privilege. _ _

_ _“You sound unsure of yourself.”_ _

_ _Draco waved away the professor’s words. “Only in semantics. Not in belief.”_ _

_ _“So the Equality group is the wrong group and you were exercising your duty to remind him of that.”_ _

_ _“Exactly.”_ _

_ _“What makes you think the Equality group is the wrong group?”_ _

_ _Draco blinked at the professor. Surely he wasn’t going to try and debate with him about Pureblood Superiority? Everyone knew it was pointless. Malfoys prided themselves on their superiority. They were smarter, richer, more attractive and more powerful than every other wizarding family. And their explanation for their superiority was rooted in Pureblood heritage. _ _

_ _And Draco didn’t want to have a debate. Not really. Not when he was already conflicted and frustrated and so very alone. So he hardened his gaze. “My father says it is.”_ _

_ _Draco didn’t need to be a genius to see how Bill reacted at the mention of Lucius Malfoy. Bill’s mouth twisted. His hands tightened for a second on the desk, not in aggression, but like he was bracing himself. _ _

_ _Again, Bill took a few moments to formulate a response. Draco prepared himself for a lecture, or an insult, or outright dismissal. But the professor merely worked through his emotions, whatever they were, and came out of it all with a small nod. _ _

_ _“Family’s important.” And then he changed the subject. “You bring any of your Ancient Runes stuff with you? I could start helping you with the Cretan dialect.”_ _

_ _Draco was taken aback. He was too startled for his own response, so he only nodded and pulled out his books. Bill moved over to sit beside him, which was another surprise, and Draco spent the next hour re-learning a dialect with a surprisingly adept and friendly teacher. He already knew the information, but he was engaged despite himself, mainly because Bill also talked about his travel through the sea caves of Crete and the ancient burial sites. He was almost disappointed when Bill called the lesson to a halt and let him move on to his other homework. Bill went back to the teacher’s desk and started on his own work, lesson planning by the look of it. _ _

_ _Draco spent another hour on homework, and the last hour reading for fun. Bill dismissed him a few minutes early. He was in the middle of re-packing his bag when Ginny Weasley barged into the room and strode up to the desk. _ _

_ _“What did Ron say?” she demanded, flipping her long hair over her shoulders. _ _

_ _Draco paused. He wasn’t much of a fan of family drama – he had enough of it at his own home – but he was fascinated at this conflict. He’d never really believed the Weasley family was capable of arguments. They had a temper, to be sure, but they’d always seemed too loving and saccharine for anything more than a little spat. But the look on Ginny Weasley’s face was ferocious. _ _

_ _Bill winced. “Ron was concerned about you dating Liam. He wrote home and mum wrote me. I told her I didn’t want to be involved.”_ _

_ _“Mum said that you were going to be keeping an eye on me.”_ _

_ _Bill let out a heavy sigh. “Well, of course I’m keeping an eye on you. You’re my little sister. But I also told mum that I’m not going to parent you.”_ _

_ _“You should tell her to back off.”_ _

_ _“I’m not telling her that.”_ _

_ _“She’s gone crazy, Bill. It’s not as if we’re even going out. We hung out at the library, that was it.” _ _

_ _“She’s not crazy; she’s concerned.”_ _

_ _“Why? I’m allowed to date. It’s not as if I’m having sex!”_ _

_ _Draco’s eyebrows shot up. He wondered if this was his cue to leave. He didn’t really care to hear about the Weasleys’ sex life._ _

_ _“They’re concerned about you, Gin,” Bill placated. “Your first year was-,” he broke off and looked Draco’s way, like he just noticed his presence. Ginny turned as well and saw him, still sitting at the desk._ _

_ _She glared. “You mind, Malfoy? It’s a private conversation.”_ _

_ _There weren’t many students who glared at Draco. In fact, apart from the Golden Trio, the littlest Weasley was in rare company. _ _

_ _He scoffed. “It’s a public location.” But he still gathered up his bag and made a show of exiting the room, letting the door shut behind him. He threw up a listening charm to overhear the rest of the conversation. It was far more interesting than the homework he had._ _

_ _“Mum and dad are concerned about you,” Bill re-iterated. “They know your time here hasn’t been easy, especially considering your first year.”_ _

_ _Ginny made an angry noise. Draco belatedly remembered that her first year at Hogwarts had been relatively traumatic. She’d been kidnapped and taken to the Chamber of Secrets. Potter had rescued her from a basilisk. Draco had never been able to piece all of that escapade together, much to his frustration, and Dumbledore had been frustratingly silent. An over-simplified explanation had been given to the students and parents. Any questions or concerns had been swept away with the wave of his hand._ _

_ _“Ron’s been through a lot,” Ginny returned. “Why aren’t they worried about him?”_ _

_ _“If he started dating his entire class, they would be.”_ _

_ _“It’s not my entire class!”_ _

_ _“I know, I know. Just… you must see where they’re coming from, right?”_ _

_ _Ginny sighed. “Can’t you talk to mum and dad? Get them off my back? They listen to you.”_ _

_ _“This is for you to figure out. I’m not going to play mediator for my family.”_ _

_ _Draco could hear Ginny’s theatrical groan and Bill’s corresponding chuckle._ _

_ _“You know that once they make up their minds it’s nearly impossible to change them.”_ _

_ _“But not completely impossible.”_ _

_ _“Fine,” Ginny said._ _

_ _Draco heard the quickstep of her footfalls toward the door and let the charm drop. He didn’t bother running away though. He didn’t have any moral qualms about spying._ _

_ _Ginny pushed open the door and rolled her eyes when she saw him. “Have fun eavesdropping then?”_ _

_ _“Quite” Draco agreed. “I wasn’t aware that Weasleys fought. Aren’t you too noble and good-hearted? Too busy rescuing orphans off the street that you can’t afford to feed?” _ _

_ _Her mouth tightened. “Sure, sounds familiar. And your family holds annual escape drills to practice fleeing Azkaban, isn’t that right?”_ _

_ _Her words stung more than Draco was expecting. He was more impressed than offended though. She turned on her heel and stalked off. Draco turned the other way, heading for the Slytherin dungeons. He’d had enough of Weasleys for the day. _ _

_ _OoOoO_ _

_ _Bill had just sat down for the evening with a cup of tea when fire flashed through his arm. He jerked in surprised, the tea sloshing over the side of the cup before he could set it down. He gripped his arm to keep from crying out in pain. The Dark Lord was calling._ _

_ _He moved quickly, waving his wand to clear the spilled tea and bolting for his room. His heart pounded. His chest felt tight. He’d only just had the mark activated. He thought he’d have more time to prepare than this._ _

_ _He grabbed the invisibility cloak and pulled it around him. He reached for the potions next, one to incase him in a bubble of silence, one to mask his smell, and another to render him invisible to detection spells. His hands shook a little as he pulled the corks off and drank them. Merlin, he wasn’t ready for this. He double-checked he’d taken the right potions, made sure the cloak was wrapped tight about him, and then left the room._ _

_ _Still the fire in his arm burned, and he only had a small piece of Severus’ mark. He didn’t want to know what it would feel like if he had the full thing. He hoped that by sharing the mark, Severus’ own pain was reduced._ _

_ _He quickened his pace when he reached the outer passages of Hogwarts, breaking into a run, and then he exited out of the castle and ran into the woods. Severus was waiting for him in a clearing, marking his arrival by the movement of stirred leaves and branches._ _

_ _“When winter comes, we’ll need a floating potion, to keep you from leaving tracks in the snow,” Severus said._ _

_ _“Good idea.”_ _

_ _“Do you see the meeting point?”_ _

_ _Bill closed his eyes for a moment. This was a testing point. Could Bill get the psychic impression of the meeting point through the link? A vague image formed in his mind. An old, large farmhouse. An open field around it. A quiet night._ _

_ _“Yes, I see it.”_ _

_ _“Then we’ll be on our way. Remember, this is just a trial run. Get used to moving in the cloak. Don’t come to close to anyone. Keep yourself safe over everything.”_ _

_ _Bill nodded, even though the Potions Master couldn’t see him. Severus raised his wand and Apparated. Bill followed suit._ _

_ _He could tell, by the Apparation, that he’d just travelled a long distance – longer than he’d ever gone before. Empty space and magic pressed around him, crackling against his skin and compressing his body, before spitting him back out. He stumbled when he landed, something he hadn’t done since his first year of Apparating, but managed to keep his feet. _ _

_ _He’d landed in the short cut lawn of the house. It was dark here, but he could see and hear people Apparating about him. They wore their long dark robes and hideous hoods. Bill immediately looked for Severus, but the spy was already making his way towards the house, not looking over his shoulder, not pausing and waiting, acting as if he was completely alone._ _

_ _Bill hurried to get off the lawn, not wanting to jostle anyone and blow his cover so quickly. He had the urge to hide behind something physical – a tree, a bush, the patio furniture – anything that had more substance than the thin cloak around him. He pushed the fear back. They couldn’t see him. He was safe._ _

_ _The front doors of the house were propped open, allowing for an easy access inside. Bill stepped into the foyer, tucking himself into a corner, out of the direct line of traffic, and paused to look around him. He was struck at how bright and warm the house was. He had always associated Voldemort with darkness and shadows and dungeons. Not clean, well-maintained houses with family portraits hanging on the walls. Not with the chatter of party drifting in from the kitchen and dining rooms. _ _

_ _He heard a great deal of French, another reason why Bill had been chosen as a spy. Voldemort had started gathering forces outside of England, allowing him to gather his followers away from the growing suspicions of the English Ministry of Magic. Bill spoke fluent French, allowing him to listen in without use of a translating spell. From what he could make out of the conversation now, people were greeting each other, asking about family and work. It was uncomfortably mundane. Bill looked at the portrait on the wall, depicting a family of five, a father, mother, and three children. The gold plate on the bottom of the frame carried the last name. The Boucher’s. _ _

_ _There was a giggle and a patter of feet on the stairs above the entryway. Bill tipped his head up and saw two young faces staring down. A boy and a girl. Too young for school, but not by much. Maybe nine and ten. He watched them whisper to each other as more Death Eaters entered. One of them spotted the kids and pulled off his hood to glare at them. They scampered off, most likely back to bed. _ _

_ _Bill felt a twist in his stomach. Kids. At a Death Eater meeting. Or rather, a Death Eater meeting at a family home. His home had always been a place of safety and security, not a gathering place for terrorists. What a terrible environment for children to be raised in. _ _

_ _There was a break in flow of Death Eaters entering, so Bill took the opportunity to walk further into the house. The Death Eaters had removed their hoods and were milling about, conversing with one another. Plates of appetizers had been spent out. He carefully drifted further into the kitchen where he recognized Mrs. Boucher from the portrait, a little older and a little more frazzled. She was currently cooking and plating other dishes. A few other women, their hoods pushed back, were helping her. They were treating the meeting like a dinner party, and yet their guests were the most dangerous witches and wizards in England. Bill recognized several faces. Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange. Dieter Warrington. The elder Theodore Nott. Walden Macnair. The Carrow siblings._ _

_ _Bill kept close to the walls. He was tempted to creep closer to the gathered Death Eaters. He wanted to know what was being discussed, but Dumbledore and Severus had both impressed on him not to take any undue chances. He was still new to espionage. Better to start slowly, allow himself time to adapt and learn. There was no point in attempting any daring feats right now. It would only lead to a quicker exposure. Besides, Bill was learning quite a bit just by observing the Death Eaters in the room. He was learning names and faces. He was learning meeting places. _ _

_ _Bill found the best spot to observe the Death Eaters, a small alcove beside the liquor cabinet. There was a high-topped table in the alcove, holding an urn and a photograph. He ducked to sit under the table, keeping him out of the way and giving him a clear view of the room. It also allowed him to overhear bits and pieces of conversations as the Death Eaters poured themselves a drink. He heard a great deal of gossip, learned a couple new names, and some investment tips that were probably illegal. _ _

_ _He held his breath as Lucius Malfoy approached, Nott Senior dogging his steps. Nott looked animated, almost angry, as he spoke. Malfoy’s face was blank and his lips pressed into a thin line. _ _

_ _“- taking the given opportunity to stand for our beliefs,” Nott said. “While your son is silent. No, worse than silent, he is complicit in the drivel that is being spouted by that fool Dumbledore and the weak-willed press.”_ _

_ _Lucius Malfoy reached for the decanter of whiskey, his expression not changing. Bill had just spent the morning with his son, teaching him the Cretan dialect and telling stories about cracking runes deep in the ancient sea tunnel crypts. Draco had the same blank face as his father, but as they’d worked together, Bill had seen the cold mask fade into one of interest. Lucius kept his mask on, although a faint bit of irritation furrowed his brow. The resemblance between father and son was striking. The same brow and nose, the same eyes, the same hair, although Lucius wore his longer, falling down to his shoulders. _ _

_ _He turned to Nott. “Whiskey, Theo?” His voice was cool, casual almost, like he wasn’t even listening to the other Death Eater._ _

_ _“Did you hear a word I said?” Nott demanded. “Your son declared for the Neutral Party at Hogwarts.”_ _

_ _It was a surprise to Bill. After all, Draco had openly admitted to attacking a classmate for choosing the Equality Party and spent detention with him. If Draco cared so much about blood superiority, why had he chosen the Neutral Party? Was he actually questioning his beliefs or was he trying to spy on the other groups?_ _

_ _“A double, then,” Lucius murmured, pouring a generous helping of whiskey into a crystal glass and handing it over. _ _

_ _Nott took it, all but spluttering. Lucius poured himself his own, only a single serving. He spoke as he poured. “This is hardly the time to confer on such trifling matters. Our lord has greater things to discuss tonight.”_ _

_ _“That’s all you have to say? No silver-tongued defense of your precious heir? No outright dismissal of a truth you well know?”_ _

_ _“And what truth is that?”_ _

_ _“You’re too soft on him. You ought to rein him in, bring him into the fold. He hasn’t even met the Dark Lord yet, while my son has. He’s even participated in our revels.”_ _

_ _Bill didn’t know Theodore Jr. He wasn’t taking any Runes classes, but he felt a moment of pity for the boy. He wasn’t even an adult yet, and he was being brought to dark revels and being encouraged to join in? Bill knew what happened at those events. Muggles were tortured, sometimes killed. The Death Eaters proved their fervor to the Dark Lord by blood-letting or other ritual acts of masochism. _ _

_ _“Yes, and how many students has your son told about his summer activities? At least three, from what I heard. And what happens, do you suppose, when that word gets out to Dumbledore? I am thinking of more than my family’s pride. I am thinking of our lord’s protection and secrecy.”_ _

_ _“That’s a weak excuse, and you know it. If my son had pledged to the Neutral Party, I’d march over to Hogwarts and hex him until he remembered his place.”_ _

_ _“Interesting,” Lucius mused. “I’ve never had to torture my child so that he’d listen to me. But I suppose if your son is that unruly…,” he trailed off and shrugged a shoulder._ _

_ _Nott’s lips pulled back, baring his teeth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Lucius? One of these days-,” and then he broke off because a sudden silence had fallen over the room._ _

_ _Bill had been so caught up in the conflict directly in front of him that he hadn’t noticed Voldemort’s arrival, but here the Dark Lord stood, just in the doorway. His robes were black as night, his pale skin scaly, appearing almost damp in the candlelight. His nose was flattened, with slits for nostrils. His eyes were sunken into deep sockets. They gleamed a disturbing shade of a red. _ _

_ _Bill felt his breath catch. His heart, which had finally begun to slow as he adjusted to the invisibility cloak, missed a beat and then skyrocketed into a drumroll. He could feel the rush of blood in his ears. _ _

_ _“What’s this?” Voldemort asked, his voice catching and hissing out the ‘s’s’ of his words. If a snake could talk, Bill was sure it would sound like this. “An argument between two of my most loyal followers?”_ _

_ _Voldemort stepped further into the room. Bill watched as the other Death Eaters drew back, bowing deeply before their lord. Voldemort hardly seemed to notice their presence; his red eyes were locked on Lucius and Theodore. “And what is so important that it has led to this unseemly conflict?”_ _

_ _“Nothing worth mentioning, milord,” Nott said quickly, even as Malfoy gestured to Nott and said, “I will let my colleague explain, as it is his concern.”_ _

_ _Nott paused. Malfoy smirked. _ _

_ _“Please, Theo, if it is of such trouble to you, surely our lord should also be aware.”_ _

_ _With such an invitation, Nott couldn’t remain silent. He bobbed his head before Voldemort. “We were discussing our children. Some are most ardent in their expression of their devotion to you, like my son. However, others have refused the chance to publicly support you, such as Lucius’ boy.”_ _

_ _Voldemort’s head tipped and his eyes went to Lucius. _ _

_ _“Dumbledore has started a school debate club,” Lucius said, with the slightest hints of exasperation in his voice. He shrugged, the silk robes he wore fluttering with the movement. “It appears the Headmaster wants the children to discuss politics, and will, no doubt, include his form of propaganda in the curriculum.”_ _

_ _It was artful, the way Lucius had broached the topic. He showed his irritation, but nothing more, nothing that would lend the debate any credence. He made the issue small, trivial. It was clear, by the flush on Nott’s face, that he realized how insignificant it sounded, especially in front of Voldemort. _ _

_ _Lucius waved the topic away as if it were a pesky fly. “But we have far more important issues to discuss, particularly in regards to Hogwarts. Perhaps we should retire to a more private setting and discuss that item you need retrieved?”_ _

_ _Voldemort nodded to Lucius, conceding his point. Bill watched as he and the Death Eaters that made up his inner circle left the room._ _

_ _Bill tried to find a way to join them, because it sounded as if Lucius was implying that there was an item in Hogwarts that the Dark Lord wanted to retrieve, and that was sure to be a vital piece of information. But he couldn’t quite make it over to them. There were too many Death Eaters in the way. So Bill forced himself to remain put. He’d gathered a great deal of information already and he shouldn’t try his luck. _ _

_ _He settled back and contented himself with gleaning more information from the snippets of conversation he overheard._ _

_ _But what could Voldemort possibly need from Hogwarts?_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a completely new chapter. The whole story itself is an edit of my completed story, found on fan fiction.net. I didn't really think that I would be adding a chapter, but there you go. If you're curious about my edits or additions, you can go over to fanfiction and read about the process there. Hope that you enjoyed it and please review!


	6. Rule 4: Having friends is costly.

Rule #4: Having friends is costly. Keep them only if you are unable to function without social support.

There was something strange about the homework Bill had assigned.

It was easy enough. Draco had finished the day it was assigned, in less than twenty minutes, but there was something off about it. He couldn’t figure out what was so strange about it, but it itched at the back of his mind. He kept it out on his desk as he started on his Potions work, hoping that the answer might come to him if he focused on something else.

It was later in the evening than he typically did homework, but it was a Wednesday, meaning after dinner he had Debate Class. Draco, as a member of the Neutral Party, was able to attend either the Equality or Superiority groups. He was supposed to listen to their arguments, ask questions when he was confused, and point out any flaws in their theories. Draco had gone to the Superiority meeting and spent the past hour and a half listening to a group of vain Purebloods and desperate Halfbloods count all the ways they were better than Muggle-borns. 

It wasn’t that Draco didn’t believe in Pureblood Superiority, because he did. Or at least, he thought he did, but all of the reasons that came out at the meeting were false reasons. Warrington had brought up magical strength. It was common belief that Purebloods had stronger magic than Mudbloods, but that had been disproven by several research papers. Nott had talked about the importance of continuing the culture of magic, which Draco did agree with. It was difficult to maintain traditions and rituals of a culture when new members were constantly being added. But that didn’t mean Muggle-borns came empty handed. Many advancements in the fields of potions, healing, transport, and economics could be attributed to Muggle-born or Halfblood wizards and witches. 

Goyle had said that witches and wizards were better than Muggles, and… well, Draco sort of believed that one. Not that Muggles couldn’t be fascinating in their own right – they had rockets and space stations, computers and the internet, television and electricity and cars. They had science and mathematics and physics. But they didn’t have magic. They didn’t even believe in magic. Didn’t that make them worth less than magical folk?

Draco felt a pang in his temples. He pushed the thoughts away and tried to refocus on the Potions homework. He didn’t get far. The page of runes stared up at him, mocking him. He picked up the sheet again. The assignment was simple. Bill was teaching class about the limitations of translation spells, and had used such a charm to translate a page of text. The students were supposed to catch the errors that the spell made. But there was something weird about text. It was clunky. It didn’t flow. 

There was something very off about it. 

An owl screeched into the room and landed on top of his homework. The yellow eyes stared at him imperiously. The post usually didn’t come this late at night. It cost extra for overnight deliveries. Draco reached for the letter and unfurled it. He recognized the writing immediately, bold, even calligraphy. It was from his father. 

_Draco,  
As I understand it, there is a new class this year, one where students have the opportunity to speak freely about issues that have been taboo until now. Imagine my surprise when I hear that you have discarded the opportunity to speak favorable about your lord and heritage and have instead signed your name to a group consisting of Purebloods who wallow in their cowardice and shrink away from the duty of joining their kin.  
You have damaged our name and standing. I expect an immediate explanation and, if your reasons are not sufficient, there will be swift consequences. Do not forget you will pledging your loyalty to our lord this summer.  
Your Father,  
Lucius Malfoy___

_ _Draco sighed and closed his eyes. Yes, that would be Nott tattle-telling on him, and no doubt Nott’s father had seemed fit to rub this in Lucius’ face. It was clear Lucius was extremely displeased by him because he wouldn’t have risked sending a letter otherwise. The Aurors were looking for him, and owls could be tracked. _ _

_ _He wondered what ‘swift consequences’ meant. It wouldn’t be anything overly terrible, just moderately frustrating, like being pulled from the Quidditch team. Lucius’ punishments were mild compared to what some of his classmates faced. Lucius was strict and demanded obedience, but he was never cruel or malicious, and he never used corporeal punishments. Draco counted himself lucky in that regard. He knew his father’s failings. Lucius would always prioritize his own wellbeing, and he valued business and finances of his son, but Draco had no doubt that his father held affection for him. He’d seen the evidence when he was thirteen, when he was delirious and seizing from withdrawal from illegal pleasure potions. _ _

_ _Memories hit hard. The house party that Narcissa had thrown. Sneaking out of his rooms because she always locked him in when she didn’t want him underfoot. Getting caught by a trio of drunk witches who’d cooed over, calling him ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’. Getting dragged into the party. Having drinks pushed into his hands. Trying them all to the entertainment of the guests. Taking his first smoke of a pipe, and coughing so hard he’d gagged. The laughter around him. And then Narcissa, who’d spotted him. He’d thought she’d be angry, but she’d simply smiled and handed him a pleasure potion. _ _

_ _Draco had known what it was. He’d known it was illegal and potentially dangerous, but he’d been thirteen and incredibly tipsy. And a roomful of intoxicated, beautiful, important people had all urged him on. _ _

_ _He didn’t remember much of what happened after that. His memories started again with Lucius holding him down as he screamed in pain from the withdrawal. His father had stayed with him the whole time. _ _

_ _Draco scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin prickled uncomfortably, the phantom burn of his memories. He forced it back and turned his attention to the letter. Lucius was demanding an answer now and it would have to be a good one. _ _

_ _He pulled out a blank piece of parchment, picked up his quill, and then the door opened. Draco looked over, expecting to see the other Slytherin boys, but instead it was Pansy. _ _

_ _“Well, aren’t you distracted,” she said, leaning against the doorway. _ _

_ _Draco frowned at her. She was hedging at something, but he didn’t have the patience to play guessing games. “If you have something to say, it’s more efficient just to say it.” _ _

_ _His voice came out sharper than he intended, and he hid a wince. It wasn’t smart to yell at Pansy. She could be unexpectedly vengeful._ _

_ _Pansy tossed her hair with a huff. “I really shouldn’t have to point this out, but I don’t mind earning an easy favor telling you things you should already know. It’s nine o’clock. Do you know where your roommates are?”_ _

_ _It only took a second for her meaning to sink in. Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle hadn’t returned to the dorms after meeting for debate class. They were supposedly going to the kitchens to get something to eat, but Blaise wasn’t back yet either._ _

_ _“Merde.”_ _

_ _Draco was up and moving in an instant. He grabbed his unregistered wand, preparing for the worst-case scenario, and darted from the room. He ignored the way the owl screeched at him, impatient for a reply, and the way Pansy smirked at him. She’d call on his favor, he just knew it. He strode out of the Slytherin dormitory, keeping his pace quick but not urgent. Once he was in the hall, he broke into a run. _ _

_ _The Equality group had been meeting on the third floor, in the old Charms classroom, and that was where Draco headed now, jumping over the trick step on the moving staircase and leaping onto the next flight before it had fully docked. His lungs were burning by the time he reached the third floor. He slowed to a walk to settle his breathing. Appearances were important; he couldn’t appear worried. _ _

_ _He could hear sounds of a fight up ahead and to the right, in the hallway that branched out from the main corridor. A voice cried out in pain, and he knew it was Blaise. He heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh and another cry. He heard the woosh and crackle of a hex, a burn hex if he wasn’t mistaken. It had a distinctive sizzle to the casting. Blaise screamed this time. Laughter followed._ _

_ _Draco reached up to finger-comb his hair as he approached. The fine strands were easy to settle back into place. He checked his tie and that his shirt was still properly tucked. He pulled in one more deep breath and then turned the corner._ _

_ _Blaise was on the floor, about mid-way down the hall. He was right by the doorway to the Charms classroom, meaning he was probably jumped when he left. Draco silently cursed the Golden Trio for not thinking to escort him back to the dorms. And then he cursed Blaise for not leaving with the group. He must have known he was in danger._ _

_ _Nott stood over Blaise, wand drawn. Crabbe and Goyle were at his side. They immediately froze when Draco first appeared, but then relaxed when they saw it was just him. _ _

_ _“Come to join the fun?” Nott asked. “You’re a little late to the party.”_ _

_ _He wasn’t just talking about the current assault; he was berating Draco for not joining the Superiority group. Draco ignored him. He stopped by Blaise and looked down at the other boy. _ _

_ _“When I said it was a secret, I didn’t mean to take a beating. You could have told them before curses were thrown.”_ _

_ _Blaise tipped his head up. One eye was puffy already; it’d be swollen shut by morning. His nose was dripping blood. His bottom lip was split. The burn hex had caught him across the ribs. His shirt was torn, revealing lines of red, raised flesh. Draco could see boils on his hands and a tremor in his legs. More evidence of curses. _ _

_ _Draco had been distracted. He should have seen this coming. As soon as Crabbe and Goyle had been pulled to follow Nott to the kitchens, he should have realized what was happening. Now he had a mess on his hands, and Blaise had paid the price. The only good bit of news was that Blaise was beaten so severely that no one realized he hadn’t caught on to the lie Draco was feeding him. He mumbled a couple of words, gargling over the blood in his mouth, but they were indecipherable._ _

_ _Draco looked back at the others. “You don’t really think Zabini’s gone Muggle-lover, do you? You know who his parents are.”_ _

_ _“His parents are soft.”_ _

_ _“His parents are older magic than your family.”_ _

_ _“So are the Weasley’s, but they still kneel before Dumbledore and Potter.”_ _

_ _Draco rolled his eyes. “They’ve been Muggle-lovers since the beginning. The Zabini’s are Pureblood supporters. And so is Blaise.”_ _

_ _“Then why’s he with the Equality group?”_ _

_ _“Because I asked him to,” Draco lied. “He’s spying on them.”_ _

_ _“That’s a load of bullshit,” said a new voice._ _

_ _Draco turned as Warrington stepped out from the Charms’ classroom. Warrington was a large boy, tall and broad-chested. His forehead was pronounced, hanging over the rest of his face, giving him a menacing air. _ _

_ _Warrington crossed his arms. “Blaise is a traitor. And you signed Neutral, meaning you are too. Now you’re trying to save face, by pretending that he’s a spy. No one believes it.”_ _

_ _“Both the Equality and Neutral groups oppose the Superiority Party,” Draco said. “There are two groups, so two people are needed to spy. That’s what Blaise and I are doing.” _ _

_ _“You should come up with a better story, Malfoy. I’m already a Death Eater. I know what the Dark Lord has commanded. You weren’t told to spy. Neither was Blaise.”_ _

_ _“It’s a secret operation, Warrington. You didn’t need to know about it, so you weren’t told.”_ _

_ _He kept his tone dismissive and condescending and could tell he struck a nerve. Warrington’s eyes narrowed; his jaw tensed. Warrington was afraid that Draco was telling the truth and that he hadn’t been trusted with sensitive information. _ _

_ _Draco pushed that fear further by laughing at him. “Does that hurt? Knowing that you didn’t make the cut?”_ _

_ _“I’m a part of this too!” Warrington railed. “I am a servant to the Dark Lord as much as you.”_ _

_ _“I am no servant. I am a follower, and the son of the Dark Lord’s most trusted Lieutenant. As much as it pains you to admit, you aren’t privy to the actions of greater men. You’re an errand boy, a foot soldier, a pawn professing to be a rook.”_ _

_ _Warrington snapped, like Draco thought he would. He roared, his voice a cry of defiance and anger. He lashed out with a curse, but Draco was prepared. He deflected the spell, not bothering to raise a shield. Shields weren’t that useful in dueling. They took too long to cast, but Warrington tried to cast one now. Draco’s spell slipped through the magical forcefield before it had time to solidify. Warrington was tossed backwards, unconscious before he even hit the ground._ _

_ _Nott threw out a hex, and Draco was forced to back-step as he parried. Nott was a better duelist than Warrington. If Draco was feeling generous, he might even call Nott competent. He sent out a barrage of curses now, easy to cast hexes that didn’t require too much time to fire off. They would cause minimal damage, but dueling wasn’t always about hitting hard; it was about landing the hit. Even minor charm damage could add up, could make a hole in the opponent’s defense. _ _

_ _Draco was a competitive duelist. He’d gone to several juniors’ dueling tournaments over the past three years, not including this summer. He’d taken first place in all his competitions. Dueling was an outlet, a way for Draco to show part of his genius without completing revealing his secret. It was a way to earn Lucius’ pride. _ _

_ _Draco deflected every curse. They ricocheted into the stone walls, hitting with the sound of muted thunder. Lights refracted. A faint tremor shook the floor. Draco responded with twice the number of hexes. _ _

_ _He could have extended the fight, and a part of him wanted to. It was a release to fight. And it was gratifying to see Nott fight with everything he had had, and still Draco pressed the advantage. He could have toyed with Nott longer, savored the way he grew desperate against Draco’s onslaught. But that wasn’t the smart thing to do. Accidents happened, even to geniuses, and a mistake now could have severe consequences. It was better to end it quickly._ _

_ _Draco began aiming his curses higher, towards Nott’s face, drawing his defenses up. When Nott was sufficiently distracted, he sent out a simple stupefy spell, catching him low in the gut. Nott collapsed. _ _

_ _Draco rounded on Crabbe and Goyle next. They hadn’t joined in the fight; they were simply watching, backed up out of the line of fire. They held up their hands and shuffled uncomfortably on their feet, clearly not wanting a part of any fight. _ _

_ _Draco sheathed his wand. “You two aren’t going to give me any trouble, are you?”_ _

_ _“No trouble,” Crabbe said, shaking his head._ _

_ _Goyle nodded in agreement._ _

_ _Draco glanced towards Blaise, still on the ground, staring up at him with wide eyes. He was confused. He knew Draco was lying to protect him, but he couldn’t quite figure out why. Draco turned back towards Crabbe and Goyle. _ _

_ _“Pull them in,” Draco said, gesturing to the bodies of Warrington and Nott and then the Charms classroom._ _

_ _They obeyed without question. It was often a wonder to Draco why these two boys, without any ambition of their own, were sorted into Slytherin. Surely Gryffindor, with its un unquestioning loyalty, better suited them. But he knew that Crabbe and Goyle didn’t want just any friends. They wanted powerful friends. They liked being bullies, taking what they wanted without any consequences. Slytherin was better suited to that._ _

_ _He watched Crabbe and Goyle pull the two unconscious Slytherins into the empty classroom, not bothering with a spell. They had magic, but using it required effort and concentration. Physical tasks came more naturally to them._ _

_ _Draco followed them inside and then flicked his wand twice. “Stupefy.”_ _

_ _They dropped with grunt._ _

_ _Draco let out a breath. He finally had a moment to plan his next move._ _

_ _Obviously the spy story wasn’t going to hold. And as such, Draco couldn’t let them remember that he’d come to Blaise’s defense. There was no excuse for protecting a genuine blood-traitor. He sighed again, this time in frustration. Merlin, when did life become so complicated? _ _

_ _He swung out with a curse. “Ventas!”_ _

_ _Wind swept from his wand; he could see a ripple of it form in the air. It smashed into the desks on the right-hand side of the room, sending them flying. They toppled into the walls and tumbled over each other. Legs snapped off. Desks cracked._ _

_ _The door immediately slammed shut as the anti-destruction wards were activated. Draco didn’t care. He waved his wand again. “Fractus!”_ _

_ _Jagged silver light burst forth and crackled across the left side of the room. The desks and chairs splintered with loud snaps, falling into several pieces. _ _

_ _Draco turned to the chalkboards at the front of the room. “Inscriptus!”_ _

_ _He wrote out the words in the air and they were seared into the walls and the chalkboards. “Filthy Mudbloods! Muggle Lovers! Blood Traitors!”_ _

_ _He paused, pulling in a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. It felt good to release his anger and create some destruction. He surveyed the room and nodded. It looked like the carnage a group of students would create. No one would think that a single student was capable of this much damage, much less with three spells. But there was more to be done._ _

_ _Draco knelt by Nott first. Of all the students, Nott was the smartest. It would be the most difficult to modify his memory, so he’d start with him, while he was at his strongest._ _

_ _He held his wand to Nott’s temple. “Legilimens.” Nott’s memories filtered into his mind. Draco ignored the impulse to sort through his head, and started with the freshest memories. Attacking Blaise, fighting Draco. “Obliviate.” He pulled those thoughts out of Nott’s head. _ _

_ _It was a difficult task. Memories weren’t distinct objects. They were threads, tangled together, frayed and split and converging into a dozen other memories. Draco took his time, making sure the extraction was clean. _ _

_ _He then thought of the wind charm, and the damage it did to the room. He thought of the inscription spell, and writing slurs on the walls. “Insero.” He pushed that memory into Nott’s head, along with the memory of the slamming door as the protection wards were activated, sealing the Slytherins inside. _ _

_ _The effort left him sweating. He moved over to Warrington and continued the process. For the sake of detail, he gave Warrington the memory of the splinter charm. This time, when he rose, he felt an ache beginning to form in his temples. _ _

_ _Memory charms were difficult. They demanded concentration and willpower. They cost an exorbitant amount of magical energy. Draco took a few minutes respite and then moved on to Crabbe and Goyle. He didn’t bother implanting memories, just pulled out the incriminating ones. _ _

_ _When he got up this time, he swayed a little. He staggered to the door, pressed his hand against it, and performed an illegal phasing spell to step through the wards. _ _

_ _Blaise was still in the hall. He’d pushed himself over to the wall and was leaning against it. He was still only half-conscious._ _

_ _“Draco,” he slurred. “Wha’s goin’ on?”_ _

_ _Draco could ask Blaise not to tell about his assistance tonight. He could ask Blaise to swear to secrecy. He could even threaten Blaise to keep his silence. _ _

_ _But that would require trust. _ _

_ _That was something Draco didn’t have. _ _

_ _Draco leveled his wand at Blaise. He saw the boy’s eyes widen._ _

_ _“Wait, ple-,”_ _

_ _“Obliviate.”_ _

_ _There was no need to cast Legilimens on a conscious subject when using the memory charm. Their mind was already alert. Their memories were still at the forefront of their mind. Draco found the memory of himself and began extracting it from Blaise’s mind. It was hard to capture. Blaise had that memory tied to several others – times that Draco should have acted like a Death Eater, times that he should have been rude, demeaning, and cruel, but instead he’d been neutral, non-committal, even friendly. It was like gathering spider silk, pieces of the memory kept breaking off and floating back into the ethos of Blaise’s mind. Draco cursed and struggled. He felt his strength begin to wane, felt the throbbing in his head rise to a crescendo. His muscles trembled. His heart pounded and stomach churned, like he was mid-game in a Quidditch championship._ _

_ _He snagged the last piece away and fell backwards onto the stone floor. Blaise muttered something and slipped further down the wall. His eyes fluttered closed as his body slipped into unconsciousness, Draco’s memory spell the last abuse it could take that night._ _

_ _Draco lay for a moment on the cold stone floor, gathering his strength. He pushed himself to his feet. He cast a simple camouflage charm over himself and Blaise, and then a levitating spell on Blaise’s body. He began the long walk to the infirmary. _ _

_ _It was nearing curfew, if not already past. The corridors were silent and empty. Draco floated Blaise’s body into the infirmary and onto the nearest stretcher. Pomfrey was most likely already in bed so Draco hit the bell on the way out to alert her that she had a patient. He headed back to the Slytherin dormitory, dropping the camouflage charm because he didn’t feel capable of maintaining it. _ _

_ _The main room still held a few students, some working on homework, others simply socializing. Pansy had the best seat in front of the fireplace. She looked up from her book when he entered._ _

_ _“Well?” she asked. _ _

_ _“I took care of Blaise,” Draco told her, knowing that the other students were listening and when Blaise’s assault was made known in the morning, they would assume he was behind it. There wouldn’t be enough evidence for Draco to be convicted of the assault, but Draco wanted it to be rumored that he, Draco Malfoy, Prince of Slytherin, had attacked the blood-traitor. It would stave off any rumors that he was getting soft. The other Slytherins would be found, locked in the old Charms classroom, the evidence of their own misdeeds surrounding them._ _

_ _Pansy smiled. She wouldn’t think Draco had anything to do with Blaise’s injuries, but that was fine. She and Draco had enough information on each other to ensure that secrets were kept. _ _

_ _Draco continued to his dorm room and was met by the screech of the owl. The pain in his head spiked. Draco wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep it off, but his father had demanded his reply. Draco would have to give it._ _

_ _He sat at his desk and picked up his quill._ _

_ _ _Father,  
You understand correctly, there is a debate class this year. No doubt the student who felt it necessary to inform you of my current affiliation was not blessed with advanced reasoning skills. If so, my position in the Neutral Party would have been obvious. As a neutral student, I am able to access the faction of students that are currently undecided in this issue, as well as accessing the party that opposes the Dark Lord. I have ample opportunity to listen to their strategies, beliefs, and any other information which can be useful in our fight. If you believe this is not important, then I shall take my place in the correct party. Until then, be assured that I have not renounced him.  
Your son,  
Draco L. Malfoy___ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco attached the letter to the owl’s leg and set it free. It swooped from the dormitory, scattering his homework pages with the beat of its wings. Draco gathered the parchment into an unorganized pile and dropped it on his desk. He let it sit there and collapsed on his bed. There was a moment of unexpected relief in the realization that tonight’s activities meant he’d have the room to himself tonight. Usually Draco needed a host of silencing spells and darkening charms to blot out the presence of his roommates. Crabbe and Goyle both snored and Blaise liked to stay up late with a light on reading. Draco was already cursed with insomnia, and the extra stimulation at night only worsened the symptoms. Tonight, Draco simply flicked his wand and the room went dark and quiet._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco let himself go limp on his bed, but there was residual tension in his neck. His muscles felt like he’d been hit by a jelly-legs jinx, weak and wobbly and quivering. The room felt like it was spinning around him. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He was going to have a killer migraine tomorrow._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Rule number four: Having friends is costly. Keep them only if you are unable to function without moral support._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He closed his eyes and tried to throw himself into sleep. It fought him every step. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _OoOoO_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill was stopped with the other professors in the teacher’s lounge before breakfast on Thursday. A harried-looking McGonagall stood in front of the door, blocking their exit. She was accompanied by a resigned looking Snape. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“What’s he done this time?” Flitwick asked. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _By the sighs and groans of his colleagues, Flitwick was referring to Draco Malfoy. The boy really did a good job of making enemies. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Draco was not a part of this,” Severus said, even as Minerva stated, “It’s unclear as of now.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _They both stopped and turned to each other. McGonagall frowned at Severus; he scowled back. It was rather funny, because Bill had seen them interact in Order meetings, and they were quite friendly with each other. Now they played to role of bickering colleagues. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Minerva sniffed and looked back at the gathered teachers. “This morning, four Slytherin students were found in the meeting room of the Equality group. They had vandalized the room, writing obscenities on the walls and destroying the property within. They were caught by the wards and spent the night there, until Filch found them this morning.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Which students?” Sprout asked._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Warrington, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“That’s Malfoy’s usual crowd. You sure he wasn’t involved?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Quite,” said Snape coolly._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Another Slytherin student, Blaise Zabini, was assaulted last night. He is currently recovering in the infirmary.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill let out a breath of frustration. It was a tragedy that students were being attacked for their beliefs in equality. It was a tragedy that other students felt they had the right to react in violence. He was the only one upset. He heard a few epitaphs being muttered. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Blaise Zabini is a good kid,” Sprout said, voicing the general opinion in the room. “I thought when he pledged to the Equality group that he might have some trouble with his housemates, but I did not think it would go this far.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I thought he was very brave,” Claire agreed. She immediately wilted under the attention when everyone looked her way. She ducked her head and cleared her throat. “It must be very hard for him to have differing opinions from his housemates.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Yes, quite,” Flitwick agreed. He turned to Severus with a challenging look in his eyes. “What is their head of house going to do about this rampant prejudice and violence against Muggle-born students and those who support them?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Mr. Zabini will be interviewed when he is feeling better,” Severus said. “He will name his attacker and Headmaster Dumbledore will take over from there.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“The student responsible ought to be expelled!” Sprout exclaimed. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“We all know it’s Malfoy,” Hooch said. “He already attacked Zabini in the first debate class.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“It must be him,” Flitwick agreed. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The other professors nodded. Bill could see some of their faces take on a speculative expression, like they were imagining Hogwarts without Draco Malfoy._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I’m afraid the future is not so clear,” Sybil announced in a warbling voice. “My crystal ball was foggy this morning. I thought at first it meant I hadn’t properly attuned to the mystic forces that surround us, but now I think it’s an omen. We will receive no answers today.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“For Merlin’s sake, Sybil,” Sprout said. “can’t you let us have even one happy thought?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“It’s probably best not to get our hopes up,” Hooch said. “In my opinion, he should have been expelled years ago. But if that’s all, Minerva, I’d like to get down to breakfast. I’ve a class of first years to get into the air today, and I can’t do that on an empty stomach.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _McGonagall nodded and stepped aside to let the professors out. Bill followed the throng down to the Great Hall. While the others seemed to be almost giddy at the aspect of expelling Draco, Bill wasn’t quite convinced at his guilt. Draco had admitted to attacking Blaise in detention last week, but his reasoning was weak at best. Almost as if he didn’t believe in the reasons himself. Draco could be questioning Pureblood superiority, and if he was, then he’d need the support of the professors here, not their animosity. While Bill understood the frustration his colleagues, surely they could tone down the hostility. All students were here to be taught and instructed. No child should be considered a lost cause while they were still in Hogwarts. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill entered the Great Hall and could immediately tell that the news of the attack and vandalism had already spread to the general student population. The Slytherins were looking smug, some glancing at Draco for a quick second, before averting their eyes and whispering to their friends. The Gryffindor table was more blatant in their staring. Glaring, really. Ron and Harry looked enraged. Hermione looked determined, like she was plotting a course of revenge. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were more subdued. Some appeared satisfied, others angry. Bill could see the divisions beginning to take place within the student body, and suddenly, he didn’t feel that hungry anymore. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He turned towards Draco to study the Slytherin himself. Draco appeared to be doing his homework over breakfast. It could be simple procrastination. But it could also mean he was too busy to do his work last night, either contributing to the attack on Blaise or the vandalism of the Equality group’s meeting room. Draco didn’t seem bothered by the attention he was getting. Bill wondered if he truly didn’t care about public opinion, or if he was just that talented an actor. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _As he watched, Draco finished the parchment he was working on and returned it to his bag. Draco poured himself a second cup of coffee, poked at his breakfast plate, and pushed it aside. He finally looked up, his eyes turning towards the Gryffindor table, like he was finally noticing the stares. He found Harry’s gaze and held it, raising an eyebrow in a silent taunt. Bill glanced over to see Harry bolt up from his seat. Ron and Hermione yanked him back down and the Great Hall went quiet, holding its breath to see what would happen next. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco smirked, widely, almost a full smile. There was a viciousness to the grin that made the hair on the back of Bill’s neck stand up. That was the expression of someone dangerous, someone who would have no qualms about assaulting a classmate, someone who might even enjoy it._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Everyone saw the exchange. Everyone watched as Draco stood up and walked towards the far exit, deliberately passing by the Gryffindor table._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Five against one, Malfoy? Is that how you treat your friends?” Harry called out. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I thought he was your friend, Potter,” Draco returned, voice biting. “You should take better care of your friends. You can’t afford to lose any more.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He was referring to Sirius, Bill was sure of it. His own anger flared, burning up his chest. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Harry’s face went pale. His fists clenched. “Like your father can afford another trip to Azkaban?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco laughed, coldly. He kept walking, calling over his shoulder, “But he’s not there anymore, is he?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _The Slytherin passed out of sight and Bill let out a breath. He wasn’t the only one. It sounded as if the entire Great Hall let out a collective sigh of relief. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“That boy has no place here,” Sprout muttered, stabbing her eggs with a fork. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _In that moment, Bill wasn’t inclined to debate it._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _As eventful as the morning had been, the rest of the day continued without surprise. Bill kept an ear out for any news of Blaise, wondering if the boy had named his attacker yet, but there were no further developments. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He stood outside the classroom as the last class of the day filtered in, Draco Malfoy among them. Hermione paused by him before entering, her voice pitched low for privacy._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Bill, is it possible to have my seat moved? I don’t know if I feel comfortable sitting next to Malfoy.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill mentally kicked himself. He should have thought of how Hermione would feel being paired with Draco after his one confirmed attack against an Equality supporter and now a second rumored assault._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Absolutely,” he said._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She nodded in thanks and stepped into the classroom. Bill stayed at his post until the end of passing time, wondering how to handle the request for change of seat. He didn’t want to name Hermione as the complainant and draw any attention to her, nor did he want to seem that he was pre-emptively punishing Draco for a crime that hadn’t been proven yet. He’d need an innocuous reason. If he skipped forward a couple of lessons, he’d have a good excuse. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Passing time ended, with only a few students rushing by, already late for class. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Don’t run!” Bill called after them. He stepped into his room and shut the door. “Everyone, split up from your partners. We’re going to have some individual work today and it will count as a quiz grade.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _There were a couple of groans, but the students obeyed. Bill walked up to his desk as the students chose new seats. The desks were set in pairs, and in his introductory course, nearly every seat was filled. The NEWT classes were smaller, and every student got a set of desks to themselves. The extra desk space would be useful for the task Bill was about to assign. He noted that Draco had moved to the desks in the back corner, the farthest from his classmates. He didn’t seem vicious now. He seemed subdued, almost tired._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Who knows what the Rosetta stone is?” Bill asked._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _As expected, the Muggle-born students raised their hands. Bill called on Anna Fletcher, a Ravenclaw. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“The Rosetta stone was a tablet inscribed in in several different Muggle languages. Because it had the same inscription but in different dialects, it was key to deciphering the unknown languages.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Five points to Ravenclaw,” Bill said. “Part of being a good translator is being able to decode a language based on another. I’m going to pass out an inscription written in three different runic languages. One you should be familiar with. The second one we are reviewing now, and the third is one we haven’t covered yet. I want to see how far you can get in deciphering the runes of the second and third languages. I will be available for assistance if needed. You have the entire period to work on it.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He passed out the pages and watched the students get to work. Some immediately pulled out blank parchment, while others began marking the page itself. Some used parchment as a scribble page, jotting down thoughts and ideas, while others read through it, their lips moving silently. Translation graphs were the key for this type of work. Bill was heartened to see that over half of the students began creating their own graphs. The students raised their hands when they got stuck, and he made his rounds, offering hints and guidance, but not giving the answers outright. He couldn’t help but notice that Draco never raised his hand to ask for help. In fact, halfway through the class period, Draco put his head down and appeared to fall asleep._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _No one finished early, but Bill hadn’t expected it. When the bell rang for the end of class, the students were still working frantically, trying to scribble more words onto the page._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Alright, quills down!” Bill laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m grading this one easy because I sprung it on you.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _That appeared to assuage their fears. Quills were put away and the students came up to hand in their efforts. Draco was the last in line, squinting a little and scrubbing at his face, like he’d just woken up. Bill could see deep circles under his eyes. Another point in favor of Draco being up late last night to partake in the attack. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Because Draco was the last to bring up his paper, about half the class had already exited when McGonagall entered with Blaise Zabini in tow. As such, it wasn’t quite as dramatic as it could have been. There were still gasps, and the remaining students nudged each other as they filed out, no doubt eager to spread more gossip._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill watched Draco pause. His face went blank._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Well, Blaise?” McGonagall asked, turning to the other boy. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill could see fading bruises around Blaise’s left eye, and he was standing stiffly, one arm pressed against his ribs. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise turned to McGonagall and shook his head. “I told you, I can’t remember what happened last night.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She nodded. “Well, that’s quite alright. An obliviate charm can be quite powerful.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill raised his eyebrows. An obliviate charm? That was advanced magic, and it wasn’t taught as part of the school curriculum. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Mr. Malfoy,” said McGonagall, “please present your wand for examination.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You think that I attacked Zabini and then obliviated him?” Draco asked, a good amount of skepticism in his voice. “What purpose would that serve?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You got a detention for your previous attack. No doubt you would like to hide evidence of your crime this time around.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco narrowed his gaze. “The examination of a wand requires a court order. And it needs to be performed by a licensed expert or the information is considered invalid.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“This is a school, Mr. Malfoy. Not a court. You have two choices, present your wand for examination of an obliviate charm or take responsibility for your attack against Mr. Zabini.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I told you I don’t remember,” Blaise protested. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill frowned, confused at Blaise’s defense of Draco. Was he defending the other boy because he was afraid of reprisal of Draco was caught? Or was there some other reason he was protecting his suspected attacker?, _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“This is a violation of my rights. It’s an illegal search.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“We are given the power to search wands at this school if we feel a serious crime has taken place. Your wand, Mr. Malfoy.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill saw Draco’s eyes flash in anger, but he handed over his wand without another word of protest. McGonagall performed a variation of the prior incantatem charm, searching for a specific spell cast in the past twenty-four hours. Bill saw her lips purse when the spell came up empty. She ran the charm again, like she couldn’t believe the results. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill expected Draco to smirk at her, to rub her nose in her defeat. Instead the Slytherin crossed his arms. “Satisfied?” His voice was more irritable than victorious.  
McGonagall handed his wand back. “You are still a person of interest in-,”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Minerva,” Bill said, almost without thinking. He winced at his audacity to interrupt the professor. But by her own account, she’d just cleared Draco of the assault. Any further lecture or accusation seemed cruel and unnecessary. “Do you mind if I step in?” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Minerva was incensed. Bill could read it in her straight back, taut shoulders, and sharp gaze, but she nodded. “I’ll leave you to get to the bottom of this.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _She left the classroom with a quick step and shut the door behind her. Bill didn’t miss the way that Blaise looked at Draco, trying to catch his eye. Blaise didn’t seem scared of Draco, not if he was actively trying to get his attention._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“How about you two take a seat,” Bill said._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco dropped sullenly into a chair. Blaise sat more gingerly, still holding his ribs. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I just want to talk this through,” Bill said, keeping his tone light and even. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Go talk then,” Draco commanded, gesturing to the teacher’s desk. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill knew what Draco was doing. He was trying to take control of the situation. If Bill went to the desk, which was a position of power, he’d actually be ceding his authority to Draco, who was the one who’d ordered him there in the first place. It was a cunning move, and Bill was reminded of Lucius Malfoy, and the way he’d taken control of the elder Nott in a similar way._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill grabbed a chair instead and pulled it over. Draco’s mouth tightened, clearly displeased that his trap had been avoided. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Do either of you feel like talking about what happened last night?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _There was silence. Draco kept his eyes fixed on the far wall, his gaze icy. Blaise shifted in his seat, his gaze flicking from Bill to Draco and back again. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Draco, you’re dismissed,” Bill said._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“What?” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You’re dismissed,” Bill said, ignoring the incredulity in Draco’s voice. “McGonagall found no evidence on your wand, so you are exonerated. Unless you’d like to make an incriminating statement, you are free to go.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco’s face wasn’t blank now. Bill had surprised him; the disbelief was easy to read. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Draco got to his feet, slowly, like he was warring between staying and leaving. He gathered his things, still watching Bill, and then cautiously left the room. Bill watched him leave, wondering if he’d just let Draco get away with the perfect crime, or if he was giving an innocent student the benefit of doubt. He was pretty sure, based on Blaise’s behavior, that it was latter. Now he just needed to figure out what had actually happened._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I know you don’t have a clear memory of last night, but what do you remember?” Bill asked. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise shook his head. “Not much. I was leaving the Equality group and the next thing I know, I was hit with a curse. I think I was jumped from behind. But that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up in the infirmary.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Did you see Draco there?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I don’t know.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“But you don’t think he attacked you.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise paused._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“You’re not scared of him,” Bill said. “Which I think is surprising, seeing as he did attack you at the first debate class.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise looked away and licked his lips, almost like he was afraid of saying anything more. Almost like he was protecting Draco. But from what?_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill leaned forward. “I just want to make sure that you’re going to be safe. So I’ll ask you two questions, alright? And as long as you answer me honestly, I’ll let you be on your way. How does that sound?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Okay.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“First question. Are you going to be safe around Draco?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I think so.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill nodded and then asked the follow-up. “Is Draco safe?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He could tell, by Blaise’s reaction, that he’d hit on something. Blaise’s eyes went wide and he stuttered over his response. “Wh- What? Why would you-? Yes, of course he’s safe. He– he’s a Malfoy. He has nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill kept his eyes on Blaise and let the silence drag out. Blaise squirmed in his seat but said nothing more._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Here’s what I’m confused about,” Bill said. “I saw you join the Equality group. It seems you’re genuine about that, I know I am. And so are the professors here. But most of those people don’t like Draco, much less go out of their way to protect him. But that’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I genuinely don’t remember who attacked me.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“And I believe that. But I also believe that you know it wasn’t him.” Bill leaned forward, willing the boy to believe him. “I can keep a secret Blaise. This will stay between us.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise let out a breath. “No, I don’t think Draco attacked me.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Why aren’t you clearing his name?” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“It’s better that people think it was Draco.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“So you’re protecting his reputation.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise nodded. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“But he attacked you at the debate class.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“People saw Draco start to curse me and assumed he meant it.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Didn’t he?” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise rolled his eyes. “Draco’s a junior league dueling champion, three years in a row. If he meant to hex me, he would have landed it. Not even Dumbledore could have stopped him.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“He was putting on a show.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“We all have roles we’re expected to play,” Blaise said, and gestured to his current state. “You can see what happens when you refuse.” _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Bill sat back, his mind turning over this new information. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“But you can’t tell anyone,” Blaise said. “You understand that, right?”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“I do. I won’t say a word.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“Thank you.” Blaise stood up and headed for the door. He stopped and turned back halfway there. “I’m not saying that Draco is nice, by the way. He’s a prat most of the time, and I think he likes playing the bad guy. It’s just…,” he trailed off. _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _“There’s a difference between a schoolyard bully and a killer,” Bill supplied._ _ _ _

_ _ _ _Blaise nodded. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”_ _ _ _

_ _ _ _He left the room and Bill sat back in his chair, considering what he’d learned. So Draco wasn’t a true Death Eater, not yet. But Bill also remembered Draco’s taunts at breakfast, and the vicious look on his face. The question he was left with was Draco already too-far gone to reach?_ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always - this is the edited version of a completed story found on fan fiction . net, where I am commenting and critiquing my way through an old story. And apparently adding an additional 2-3 thousand words to a chapter because I like to make things difficult for myself, lol. Please review if you're liking the additions! And - if you catch typos, that's helpful too ;-D


	7. Rule 5: Late night

Chapter 7

Rule #5: After a late night spent saving friends and doing other things that should be left for those who actually enjoy doing heroic deeds (i.e. Potter), make sure that the following day can be spent doing nothing but recuperating from said activities. If that is not possible, make sure that one perishes doing said heroic deeds so that the following day is not spent prying one's eyes open.

Rule #5, revised: Late night activities cause a lack of awareness. Use only when necessary.

It was a relief to know it was Friday. 

Draco was still exhausted from rescuing Blaise on Wednesday night. He hadn’t been able to catch up on his sleep and he was looking forward to the prospect of sleeping in over the weekend.  


And Friday classes were easy. None of the professors bothered to call on him, meaning he could sit in the back and be miserable without interruption. He’d spent the morning classes doing just that and skipped lunch because the thought of food made him queasy. He retreated to the central courtyard and sprawled on a stone bench, enjoying the sensation of the cold rock seep into his skin. It provided some relief from the pain in his head. 

If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t just tired. He’d over-extended himself performing all those memory charms Wednesday night. He had all the symptoms of magical exhaustion. Headache with accompanying auras. Light headedness. Nausea. Sensitivity to bright lights, loud noises, and strong odors. Lethargy. Irritability. Muscle aches.

And the worst symptom – brain fog. 

Draco was a genius. He was used to his brain functioning at top speed. He was used to recalling details no one else remembered or even bothered to notice in the first place. He formed insights from incomplete date and drew corollaries across several different fields of study. 

A few days of poor focus wouldn’t matter if Draco was only worried about research and reading and learning. But he also relied on his brain to manage his image at school. He had to remember what studies he pretended to struggle in and what topics to excel in to create the appearance of a bright, but not exceptional, student. He had to know what students to tease and when to tease them. If he said the right cutting remark to the right student at the right time, the gossip would spread through the entire school without him having to do that much work. That created the image of a prejudiced, spoiled bully without crossing the line into sadist. He had to navigate the intricate system of the Slytherin hierarchy, carefully suppressing any would-be challengers without unduly punishing the rest of the student population. That suggested he was a strong leader without the desire for ultimate power. 

It was a carefully constructed personality, and when done correctly, Draco was safe. No one realized he was a prodigy, everyone kept a wide berth around him, and he was able to have the benefits of ruling without the frustrating tasks of people-management. It also let him spend more time on the things he wanted to do, namely research. 

Draco enjoyed learning on his own, letting his own interests and curiosity guide him from music to mathematics, from blood-curses to genetics, from astrology to astrophysics. If Draco had a choice in his future career, he’d create his own library and live there and just… read. And learn. And read some more. And, if no one bothered him, or had any expectations of him, or if he somehow got better at people, then maybe he’d put that knowledge to use. 

He had a couple of ideas about potions, particularly transformative potions. He had an inkling of an idea about Lycanthropy. It ought to be curable, if the genetic changes were addressed soon enough. He had a couple of ideas about arithmancy and creating a new numeric system, although it relied heavily on Muggle calculus. But marrying the two subjects… well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. And he had ideas about finance law and economics and new business ventures. And he had several different melodies running through his head – he really should take the time to write them down, maybe expand on them, create a symphony. 

But all of those thoughts were muddled now, mixed together and jumbled, pieces of them missing, and somehow duller, like there was a heavy mist in his mind. 

Yes, five memory charms in one night was not advisable. Even one memory extraction, done fully and correctly, was the most that was recommended without an hour’s rest before the next. 

Draco stared up at the sky. It was chilly for September, and the sky was covered with thick grey clouds, making it appear closer to evening than noon. He appreciated the clouds and cool weather. 

He closed his eyes and tried to pull his memories of the past two days into better focus. 

He remembered what topics were covered in his classes. When he forced his brain into compliance, he could see the textbook pages in front of him, but that was only because he’d read them before. He’d read the majority of the school curriculum in his first year. Draco could recall snippets of what the professors said, but he couldn’t remember their exact phrasing, or the entirety of the lecture. He could remember the conversations he’d had with professors and students, but he couldn’t remember the inflections they used, or the wording he’d chosen. He couldn’t remember their expressions and gestures. 

Draco knew that other students didn’t remember lectures word-for-word, and even the professors didn’t remember their lectures with that amount of detail. He knew that other people didn’t retain ultimately useless information, like what everyone was wearing last week, who had their hair up, who forgot a quill, who was daydreaming and staring out the window. But Draco did remember those things. Or at least, he usually did. Having gaps in his memory was… 

disconcerting.

No, more than disconcerting. It was terrifying. 

Terrifying because Draco couldn’t remember Ancient Runes class and he might have made a mistake. 

A big mistake.

Draco had been tired in Ancient Runes, that much he remembered. Bill had given a translation exercise and they were all supposed to be working individually. Draco remembered starting the project, he remembered putting in a few errors in the beginning, to keep his cover, but he didn’t remember the rest of it. 

He’d fallen asleep at some point, and thankfully Bill hadn’t said anything. Although, Bill seemed like a professor who wouldn’t take it personally. In fact, he probably had a funny rule about sleeping in class, like ‘it’s okay to sleep during class, but points will be deducted if you snore’. Draco had only woken up when the bell ranged, and he didn’t have time to review his work, he just turned it in. He had a funny feeling he’d just turned in a brilliant translation assignment. 

Draco remembered what had happened afterwards in vivid detail. McGonagall had stormed in. She’d accused him of putting a memory charm on Blaise, but a search of his wand had turned up no evidence. Draco wasn’t stupid enough to perform an illegal memory charm on his registered wand. She’d still been accusatory, even with no evidence, and that’s when Bill had stepped in. Bill had been calm, rational. He’d even let Draco go, and ever since then, nothing more had been said about the attack. That was a relief at least. Rumors were spreading across the student population that Draco had gotten away with an attack on Blaise, but nothing could be proven. It protected his reputation in Slytherin, and also made the other students wary of him. Overall, it was the best-case scenario. Draco wouldn’t have to do any overt bullying for a while because the impact of these rumors would last several months at least. 

But what about his runes assignment? Had he just blown his cover? And if he had, would Bill notice? Would he care? Would he look into the rest of his grades? 

The large bells in the Hogwarts tower range out, and Draco hissed in a breath at the way it clattered in his head. He’d grabbed a headache reliever from Snape in the morning, and it was supposed to last until dinner, but it’d already begun to wear off. Yet another signal he was suffering magical exhaustion, as much as he hated to admit it.

Draco pushed himself up from the bench and dragged himself to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Stevick was a terrible professor. He was similar to Binns in the way he taught, which was to say his ‘lectures’ comprised of him reading from the textbook, word for word, in a bland, monotonous tone of voice that did nothing for Draco’s headache. He was also similar to Umbridge in that he refused any sort of practical learning in the classroom. He’d announced to the class on the first day that he didn’t trust them to cast spells without a firm foundation in magical theory, and so the class had been restricted to reading ever since. 

The students had naturally protested, because the NEWT exam wasn’t just a written test, it included a practical, where they’d have to show the ability to cast the spells they’d learned. Their protests had been ignored. The Golden Trio had been particularly ardent in their argument. They’d tried using the war with the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters as reason for practical experience, but Stevick had been unmoved. Bu the end of the first week, all three had detention and Gryffindor had lost a hundred points. The Ravenclaw students had been just as passionate in their defense, but they’d been quicker to fall silent. They realized that no amount of debate would make Stevick change his mind. They only lost ten points. 

Potter had started his defense club again. From what Draco heard, it was rather popular with the students. 

Today Stevick was droning on about wards. He’d skipped over the chapters on sustained curses and late on-set hexes because they were apparently ‘too violent’. Draco kept himself awake by brewing potions in his head, and even then, there were a few moments when his eyes drifted shut and his head jerked forward, startling him back into consciousness. 

Rule number five: _After a late night spent saving friends and doing other things that should be left for those who actually enjoy doing heroic deeds (i.e. Potter), make sure that the following day can be spent doing nothing but recuperating from said activities. If that is not possible, make sure that one perishes doing said heroic deeds so that the following day is not spent prying one's eyes open.___

_ __ _

Draco frowned. That really was a tad lengthy. Very well then.

__

Rule number five, revised: _Late night activities cause a lack of awareness. Use only when necessary.___

_ _ __ _ _

Classes for the day let out straight into dinner. Draco ate a bowl of soup, the only thing that didn’t make him nauseas. He was tired enough that he went to bed after dinner. His body ached for sleep, but as soon as he lay down, his eyes sprung open and his mind began to race. It turned over thoughts about Lucius, and the pledge he was supposed to give to the Dark Lord in the summer. It churned over worries about Blaise and how to keep him safe without anyone realizing it was Draco and his conflicted loyalties. It pondered over Nott and Warrington and the battle for dominance over Slytherin. 

_ _ __ _ _

Draco groaned and rolled out of bed. He grabbed his bag and headed to the library. Friday nights were typically spent hanging out with friends or getting into mischief, but there was always a collection of students who preferred books to social gatherings. Mostly Ravenclaws. Draco found an empty table and started researching for his paper on wards. He was halfway through a book on common security wards when Bill walked by.

_ _ __ _ _

“Oh, Draco.”

_ _ __ _ _

Bill snagged the chair next to him. Draco blinked in alarm as the professor sat down and smiled at him. Bill had been oddly kind to him during the talk with Blaise, and Draco couldn’t quite figure out why.

_ _ __ _ _

“I wanted to catch you,” Bill said, digging through his bag. He pulled a page. “You did a great job on this.” 

_ _ __ _ _

Bill sounded excited, too excited, and from a glance at the page, it was his translating assignment. 

_ _ __ _ _

Merde.

_ _ __ _ _

“You didn’t get all the way through,” Bill said, gesturing to the end of the page, and Draco had a moment of relief, before Bill continued, “but you also slept through half of the class, so considering you only had an hour, I’m impressed.”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco scanned the page as Bill gestured to it, and realized that yes, he’d stopped making calculated mistakes about a quarter way through. There was his work, insightful, logical, and far too advanced for his age. He tried to divert Bill’s attention with an insult, his usual way of ending dangerous conversations. 

_ _ __ _ _

“I was bored. Sometimes I fall asleep when the class is boring.”

_ _ __ _ _

Bill didn’t get offended. Instead, he squinted at Draco. “You look a little rough. Is everything alright?”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco wished he’d spent the time to cast a few appearance charms before heading the library, but he hadn’t thought anyone would notice him. He knew he looked tired. A curse of his pale skin meant obvious dark circles under his eyes when he hadn’t been sleeping. But he wasn’t going to admit anything to a Weasley. “I’m fine.” 

_ _ __ _ _

Bill didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t push. He gestured at the page. “Here’s where you did your best work. It was good call isolating the nouns first, that helps inform the content of the texts. And you did a fantastic job picking up on the tense differences with the nouns. No one else figured that out. I really think you got a knack for this. Have you ever thought about going into translating as a career?” 

_ _ __ _ _

"I...," Draco fumbled for a response, cursing the fact that his brain was so slow. "I mean, there's not much a demand for translators."

_ _ __ _ _

Bill laughed. “Don’t I know it. But… well, you don’t really have to worry about paying bills, right?”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco stared at him for a moment, wondering if he was being insulted or called out for being wealthy, but Bill didn’t laugh or smirk, in fact, he looked a little uncomfortable, like he was embarrassed about the indelicate remark.

_ _ __ _ _

Amusement won out over offense. Draco felt the corners of his lips tip up, so he turned away to hide his smile. “I suppose that’s true.”

_ _ __ _ _

“I mean, you don’t have to be a translator if you don’t like it. But you did take a summer course, which makes me think you like it enough to spend your holiday on it.”

_ _ __ _ _

“Translating makes sense to me,” Draco allowed. “It’s like a puzzle, and I’ve a knack for puzzles. I think that’s why I did so well on it.”

_ _ __ _ _

“Well, if you are interested in pursuing it further, let me know. I can definitely point you to some people in the field.”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco didn’t know how to respond to the offer, so he just nodded and turned back to his work. Bill peered over his shoulder to see what he was working on. “Wards, huh? You know I used to break those.”

_ _ __ _ _

"You may have mentioned that a few times in class."

_ _ __ _ _

"Glad to know you were paying attention. So what's this for?"

_ _ __ _ _

"Defense," Draco said. "We have to detail how we’d break through a basic defensive ward.” 

_ _ __ _ _

“Couple different ways to do that,” Bill said. He pulled the book closer and flipped through the pages until he found the diagram he was looking for. He pointed at the drawing. “Basic wards always have a breaking point, where they can’t hold against the magical force anymore. Brunt attacks, focused at one specific spot, can shatter through the ward. It helps to find the weakest spot, which is typically at the edges. Or, if you know what spell was used and the specific ingredients, you can use a ritual to dissolve it. That takes insider knowledge though, and longer to cast, so not always the best option.”

_ _ __ _ _

Bill flipped through the book again and continued the mini-lecture. It was clear Bill was excited about the topic, and his excitement was infectious. Draco had always enjoyed learning, but it seemed that most of the professors at the school lost touch with their passion. They focused more on theories of instruction and forms of discipline rather than the subject. It made their classes dull and lifeless. 

_ _ __ _ _

But Bill hadn’t lost his passion. He talked faster, got lost on tangents, and even pulled out a quill to draw out his own diagrams. If Draco weren’t a genius, he would have been horribly confused, because Bill was getting into expert-level ward breaking. But Draco followed, and understood, and wanted to learn more, so he kept asking questions, up until Bill paused for a moment to catch his breath and said, “I’m sorry. I got really caught up in this. You probably don’t need to know any of that.”

_ _ __ _ _

“No, it helps,” Draco said quickly. “And you know way more about it than Stevick does, so that’ll help during the exams.” He stalled for a moment, his fingers tapping out a pattern on the desk, because there was another question he wanted to ask, but he also didn’t know if he should be enjoying the company of a Weasley this much. He sucked in a breath and asked it anyway. “You never said how you’d break this ward. What’s your preferred method?” 

_ _ __ _ _

Bill didn’t answer for a moment. His expression changed into one of rueful hesitation. “Well,” he finally answered, “it’s not really an accepted method. It’s just something ward-breakers do. And it’s a little bit of a trade secret.”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco leaned in, far more intrigued than he wanted to show but unable to hide it.

_ _ __ _ _

Bill gestured at the diagram. “Falling leaves make it through a ward like this, do you know why?”

_ _ __ _ _

“I assume non-sentient objects don’t trigger the ward.”

_ _ __ _ _

“It’s even more simple than that,” Bill said. “With these basic wards, it’s all about vectors.” 

_ _ __ _ _

“Vectors?” Disbelief stained his response. It couldn’t be that simple, could it?

_ _ __ _ _

Bill grinned. “Direct force against the ward strengthens it, and the object that ran at it will only bounce back.” He drew an arrow striking directly against the ward, only to be flung backwards. “But the vector of a falling leaf,” Bill sketched out a rough approximation of a leaf’s fall pattern, forwards and back, ever-so-gently downwards, “is gradual enough that it slips right through the wards.  
So, when a curse-breaker is trying to get through a basic ward like this, we levitate one of our team and we float them down and through the ward. Then once they’re inside, they can take it down from there.” 

_ _ __ _ _

Draco laughed; it was hard not to. Defensive wards like these were hugely popular with homeowners who thought it offered the best protection while they were out travelling. He hadn’t thought they’d be so easily defeated. 

_ _ __ _ _

“But don’t tell anyone,” Bill said. “A lot of curse-breakers make good money by breaking these wards when people forget the password. We like to pretend it’s hard.”

_ _ __ _ _

“I won’t put it in my essay then.”

_ _ __ _ _

“I appreciate the discretion,” Bill said. He packed up his things and gave a nod. “Happy studying.”

_ _ __ _ _

Draco nodded back, but for some reason the gesture didn’t seem enough, so he spoke up, even though he rarely offered sincere gratitude. “Thanks for the help.” 

_ _ __ _ _

Bill paused, bag half-slung over his shoulder. He met Draco's gaze and smiled. “You're welcome."

_ _ __ _ _

Draco turned back to his work. With Bill’s assistance, he didn’t need to do any further research, so he began writing the essay. He was a quarter of the way through when he realized his headache was coming back. He’d been so distracted with his conversation with Bill that he hadn’t felt it recede. Now, though, it was creeping back in. He ignored it in favor of continuing his work. He’d rather get the essay done tonight and have the whole weekend to rest. He kept writing.

_ _ __ _ _

He glanced up when Bill left, suddenly and with such a quick step that everyone turned. Bill’s face was pinched, suggesting some sort of distress, but he’d been fine when he was talking with Draco. Had he suddenly taken ill? 

_ _ __ _ _

But he really shouldn’t care about the professor, nor should he have enjoyed his company so much. It certainly broke one of the Malfoy family codes: Do not keep company with those who are inferior.

_ _ __ _ _

Inferior referred to wealth, status, lineage, and talent. It often made Draco wonder why Lucius was so devoted to the Dark Lord. While he certainly had magical talent, he lacked in wealth and lineage. And it was only with the support of the old families that he achieved the status he had. But Draco didn’t have to follow the Malfoy code anymore. He wondered if he should have his own rule about associating with others, but he didn’t know what the parameters should be just yet. 

_ _ __ _ _

Draco finished his essay without too much trouble and then swung by Snape’s office on his way back to the dorms. The professor let him borrow sleeping potions without having to beg them from Pomfrey. Snape didn’t respond to his knock, which wasn’t too unusual. It was late in the evening after all, and he was most likely in bed. Draco unlocked the office with a spell and stepped inside. 

_ _ __ _ _

It was clear Snape had left in a hurry. A cauldron had been pulled from the fire, but the potion inside was only half-made. By the look of it, Snape was brewing a fertilizer potion, most likely for Sprout’s herbology class. 

_ _ __ _ _

It wasn’t like Snape to leave a potion half-finished. Only two things would have pulled him away: an emergency in Hogwarts, or a call from the Dark Lord. Draco was betting it was the latter, and by the warmth still coming from the potion, he’d been called away about a half-hour ago. Unbidden, Draco realized that Bill had left at about the same time. 

_ _ __ _ _

It was a product of being a genius, that his brain made connections that were absolutely meaningless. Bill was not going to a Death Eater meeting. But Draco also remembered the pinched expression on Bill’s face, and his hurried step. Something had happened. 

_ _ __ _ _

Draco closed his eyes and replayed his evening. No one had come into the library around the time Bill left, nor was there an owl or any other form of message. When Bill had left, he’d also been a little pale, like he was scared. And, he’d been carrying his books in his right arm. Typically, people carried their books in their non-dominate arm, leaving their preferred arm free, but Bill had favored his left. Draco’s mind pictured a Dark Mark on Bill’s arm, and that thought was absolutely ridiculous. Bill was not a Death Eater. But he was a Weasley and he was a member of the Order. It wasn’t so ridiculous to think he was a spy. 

_ _ __ _ _

In fact, Draco felt comfortable making that assumption. Bill was a spy, and likely working with Snape, as the Potions Master had loyalty to Dumbledore. 

_ _ __ _ _

But if Bill were a spy… that cast his friendliness into a different light. Draco had though the man was simply gregarious and good-natured. He’d thought that Bill’s kindness to him was an extension of the man’s personality. But now it was clear. Bill was a spy. He was spying on Death Eater meetings, and he was probably working Draco for information as well. He hadn’t pried for any information yet, but no doubt he was playing the long game, ingratiating himself with Draco, getting him comfortable, forging a pseudo-friendship, just to see what sort of information Draco would let slip.

_ _ __ _ _

And Draco was an absolute idiot. How had he been so easily fooled? In a matter of weeks, he’d begun looking forward to Bill’s classes, and had even enjoyed his company in the library, and all of that was because…

_ _ __ _ _

Because Draco hadn’t always been an only child. 

_ _ __ _ _

Because Draco, despite all his attempts to stay busy and active and occupied, was undeniably lonely.

_ _ __ _ _

Something caught in his chest, like his heart had seized and couldn’t quite manage the release. His hand flew to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. He pulled in a breath, and another, and another. And then he swore, long and hard, because fury was always preferable to hurt. He crossed to Snape’s potions cabinet and took two doses of a sleeping draught and a cheering potion. He had to tear himself away from the stronger options in the locked case and left for the Slytherin dormitory.

_ _ __ _ _

He pulled the drapes shut around his bed and cast half a dozen privacy charms. He drank all three vials and felt them hit at the same time. A sense of warmth and ease stole over his body, and then the sleeping draughts pulled him under.

_ _ __ _ _

He slept. 

_ _ __ _ _

OoOoO

_ _ __ _ _

Bill was getting used to the invisibility cloak. 

_ _ __ _ _

He still had a tendency of holding his breath when anyone walked by him, and still felt his heart race whenever Voldemort was near, but he was getting used to navigating rooms full of Death Eaters. He hadn’t realized how there were areas of the room no one occupied. Corners, for example. Very rarely utilized. Behind couches and chairs, like he was playing a game of hide and seek with his siblings. The stairs when no was supposed to go to the second floor. By the window when it was dark and there was no need to look outside.

_ _ __ _ _

He was not getting used to the casual displays of brutality he witnessed. A group of teenagers, probably fresh out of school, were practicing their curses on the front yard. A burning effigy of Harry Potter and the current French Minister were their intended targets, but they’d turned their attentions onto the house-elf frantically trying to keep the dry grass from catching. Bill put his head down as he heard the tormented creature yelp and scream. The teens didn’t have Death Eater robes, nor were they invited inside. They were clearly new recruits. Bill wondered what about  
this was appealing to them. 

_ _ __ _ _

A Death Eater, hood pulled back, strode towards the group, anger on his face. “Leave the elf alone or you’ll have to replace him! Do you have any idea how much a good elf costs these days?”

_ _ __ _ _

Bill headed inside where there was decidedly less torture, but the same amount of evil. Bill didn’t know which type of Death Eater he despised the most – the simplistic sadists who enjoyed inflicting pain, or the conniving criminals who made calculated grasps at power. 

_ _ __ _ _

The dozen or so Death Eaters that made up the inner circle were already gathered inside, along with their French counterparts. Much of the conversation seemed to be focused on the progress in France, although Lucius and Nott appeared to be having a separate conversation. Bill crept closer so he could overhear them. 

_ _ __ _ _

"If you could get on your man at the Legal Office, we'd have more options," Lucius was saying to Nott. “How long has it been since you requested his assistance?”

_ _ __ _ _

Nott smirked. "Missing your comfortable life, Lucius? Not so high and mighty without millions at your disposal, are you?"

_ _ __ _ _

Lucius' face did something quite incredible. With just a narrowing of his eyes, he looked irritated, long-suffering, and disdainful, all at once and with equal measure. “I am living quite comfortably, thank you for your concern. And need I remind you of the bailout I provided your company last year? I chose to be generous with you. Generosity is not a virtue I have in excess supply, so do not waste it now with your impertinence.” 

_ _ __ _ _

"I should have known you'd bring that up. You just can't let anyone get too sure of themselves, can you?"

_ _ __ _ _

"Show me a man who is confidant with good cause, and I will sing his praises," Lucius returned. "And I am not inquiring after my finances for something as trivial as better accommodations. Many of our French supporters are currently imprisoned. A large campaign donation can get the right people elected who can then release our friends. I cannot make such a donation with my black-market funds. It needs to be legal. The quicker I am pardoned, the quicker I have access to clean money. That can give us the push we need here."

_ _ __ _ _

That was good information for Bill to report back. He hadn’t realized how hard Voldemort was recruiting in France. It made him think Voldemort was planning something. 

_ _ __ _ _

Nott dismissed Lucius' words with a wave of his hand and a wicked sort of grin. Bill released he enjoyed having power over Lucius. He imagined Nott was rarely in that position. It was clear that Lucius was smarter than the other man, and far more skilled at manipulation. Bill suddenly wondered if Draco Malfoy had inherited that trait from his father. From the way Draco was described to him, Bill had been expecting a royal terror. But the boy had been surprisingly normal. Spoiled, yes, Cold, yes. Bright, certainly. But not unreasonable or unreachable. In fact, at the library not an hour before, Bill had held an enjoyable conversation with the boy. 

_ _ __ _ _

But what if Draco had learned from his father? What if he was manipulating Bill the way his father manipulated Nott? If Draco was even half as smart as Lucius, he’d be suspicious of Bill. Weasleys were known members of the Order and the last time Voldemort was in power, the Order had used spies to foil as many of his plans as they could. 

_ _ __ _ _

Bill would have to be far more careful around Draco. 

_ _ __ _ _

The conversation drifted to training the new recruits. Bill tried to ascertain where the recruits were being found and where they were meeting, but the details were too vague. Frustration well up, and then was replaced with the typical panic he felt before Voldemort arrived.

_ _ __ _ _

Bill was beginning to notice the signs. The noise from outside stopped as the new recruits fell silent at his arrival. The temperature would drop, ever-so-slightly. And Lucius’ eyes would flick towards the door, as if he somehow had a warning signal when Voldemort appeared on site. Lucius never gave that information away to the others. In fact, he seemed to enjoy setting them up for a quarrel so that Voldemort would hear them squabbling as he entered. It was a way Lucius distinguished himself from the others, always composed, always serene, while the others fought around him. 

_ _ __ _ _

Voldemort entered with a swirl of his black robes. “Well?” he demanded. “What news of my horcruxes?”

_ _ __ _ _

Bill frowned. His what?

_ _ __ _ _

Bellatrix stood. “We have identified several possible locations and are searching them.”

_ _ __ _ _

“But you do not have them yet?”

_ _ __ _ _

“It will take some time, milord.”

_ _ __ _ _

“Time!” Voldemort hissed. 

_ _ __ _ _

Bellatrix looked at the other Death Eaters, clearly nervous. 

_ _ __ _ _

Lucius stepped forward. “Do not be unduly trouble. This time in waiting is not wasted. This is time that is spent consolidating your strength and gaining powerful allies. With proper planning and execution, the citizens of England will see how how their country is improved when it is ruled by men of vision. They will turn to you, and turn on that fool Dumbledore.”

_ _ __ _ _

Voldemort seemed mollified by that. He nodded his head at Lucius. “I will trust your judgment in this. Now, tell me of France. How much support can we expect?”

_ _ __ _ _

Lucius motioned for the French Death Eaters to step forward to give their reports. Bill gathered as much detail of their efforts as he could, but his mind kept returning to Voldemort’s request to find his horcruxes. He remembered an old myth about horcruxes, objects that were possessed by a dark power or a human soul, something to that effect. But what did Voldemort want with them?

_ _ __ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is a story over on ffnet that I am editing. You can check it out over there if you want to read my commentary on what edits I'm making and why. Going to be honest, I mostly scrapped the first draft of this chapter. I hope you enjoy this one!


	8. Rule 6: Never take action directly

Rule number six: Never take action directly. Wait and see how things play out before making your move.

“Run it again!” Warrington yelled to the Slytherin chasers. His face was red. Draco could see it, even though Warrington was down on the pitch and the rest of the team was mid-air. “And pass faster this time! Do you want the other team to intercept? You’re throwing it so slow a first-year could grab it!” 

Beside him in the air, the chasers muttered a few curses. They were just as sick of Warrington as Draco was. 

“And Malfoy!” Warrington shouted. “What the hell was that?”

Draco sighed and yelled back. “A Wronski, like you asked!”

Warrington had been drilling him on Wronski feints all practice. Draco didn’t understand why. The move, a sudden dive down to the pitch as if the Seeker had seen the Snitch, was flashy, but it was overused. It’s original purpose was to lure the opposing Seeker into diving as well. The lead Seeker would get as close to the pitch as possible before pulling up, and hopefully his opponent would be caught off-guard and plow straight into the field. But the Wronksi had been over-used in the decades following its creation. No self-respecting Seeker fell for them anymore. They were just a juvenile way of showing-off. A game of chicken between the two Seekers – who could dive the fast and farthest without slamming into the ground? 

The only reason Warrington wanted Draco to practice them was because they were difficult, required a lot of focus, and were a great way of getting into an accident. Draco knew that Warrington didn’t want him to get into a severe accident, after all, Draco was Slytherin’s best Seeker, but Warrington was a sadist. He enjoyed inflicting pain on others, and he got more satisfaction when it Draco. 

Part of Draco wished he didn’t have to wipe Warrington’s memory of the duel after debate class, just so he could feel the shame of being bested by Draco. 

“That wasn’t a Wronski; it was barely a dip!” Warrington berated him. “Give me ten more, and I want to see your broom brushing the dirt on each one!”

Draco glanced over at the Chasers and rolled his eyes. They returned the expression. Warrington got back on his broom, his beater’s stick in hand. The Chasers sped off into their passing patterns. Draco tipped his broom towards the ground and started his dive. 

His brain tumbled over the numbers as he raced towards the pitch, speed, distance, trajectory. It was impossible for him not to calculate it – which was why Potter was the better flyer. It was instinctual for him. Draco thought too hard and then second-guessed himself. That was why when he pulled up out of the dive, there was still a gap between the bristles of his broom and the grass. The maneuver was originally called ‘sweeping the pitch’ before Adrien Wronski popularized it in the 1925 World Cup. His opponent – the veteran Wilfred Walkins – had fallen for the ploy and hadn’t managed to pull up in time. He’d hit the grass so hard that his broom shattered. And half of his bones. He’d survived but had never flown again.

“Do better, Malfoy! Or I’ll have you replaced!” Warrington yelled.

Draco sighed, took a quick lap around the pitch, and then dove again.

This time he got closer and Warrington said nothing. The third time was a rather decent feint, his bristles only inches from the grass. Draco could hear Simone Bellier, one of the Chasers, give a cheer. 

The fourth time, the Bludger came out of nowhere. It hit his shoulder, sending him into a spin. 

There was no way to avoid the crash, but Draco was experienced enough to know how to soften a fall. He let his broom barrel roll. He waited until he was closer to the ground, and then let go, tucking in his arms and legs. He hit the pitch and skidded across the grass. There were soften charms on the field for this very reason. Still, the impact jolted him. He hit on the same shoulder that had taken the Bludger. His teeth clacked together and his neck flashed with the brief fire of whiplash. He rolled to a stop and lay still for a moment, taking stock of his body. He didn’t think there were any serious injuries, but there would be bruises. Lots of them. 

He heard shouts from above, and then the vibration as members of his team landed. He gingerly pushed himself to his feet, keeping his back to the team for now because he was trying to compose his himself. He knew what had happened. Warrington had deliberately shot the Bludger at him. 

Adrenaline thrummed through his body, both a delayed effect from the fall and due to his blossoming anger. He felt his hands curl into fists and he forced them to relax. He couldn’t react in anger, not now, that’s what Warrington wanted. He wanted Draco to tantrum. He wanted him to lose control. 

Draco pulled in a breath and shoved all his fury down. He turned to the team, who were racing over, concern on most of their faces. 

Simone, the lead Chaser, stepped forward. “Are you okay?”

Draco looked at Warrington. The captain laughed. “You have that much trouble staying on a broom?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “You have that much trouble keeping control of a Bludger?”

Warrington shrugged. “Accidents happen.”

“As I’m practicing a Wronski?” Draco asked, letting his disbelief show. “And the Bludger just happens to come my way?”

“It was a bad toss,” Warrington said.

Draco looked over at the other beater, Millicent Bulstrode. She shook her head and backed up a step. It wasn’t an admission of guilt. She was signaling that she didn’t want to get pulled in as a witness. And the team was looking just as torn. 

“Alright,” said Draco. “It was an accident then.” He picked up his broom, checked it for damage, and then turned for the gate.

“Where the hell you going, Malfoy? Practice isn’t over yet?” Warrington demanded.

Draco turned. “Which is it, Cassius?”

“What?” Warrington asked.

“Was it an accident that the Bludger hit me, or was it on purpose?”

Warrington stalled a moment. He’d been in this position before, challenged by Draco, and he knew that it never ended in his favor. He thought hard about it now, wondering which was the right answer. But there wasn’t one. 

“If it was on purpose, then you’re unstable and dangerous to play with. If it was an accident, then you’re clumsy and dangerous to play with. Either way, my safety can’t be guaranteed, so I’m done with practice.”

Warrington scoffed. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You still got six Wronski’s to go.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m not practicing while you’re in the air.”

Warrington’s face turned even redder than before. He pointed his finger at Draco. “Get back on your broom.”

“No.”

“If you don’t get on your broom, I’m pulling you from the game.”

“No, you won’t. Because if you do, I’ll explain to Professor Snape exactly what happened here and he will have no problem handing me the team.” Draco took a step forward. “This is your senior year, Cassius. The only reason you are captain is because I am being generous. Don’t make me regret it.”

Warrington blustered more. “You still have to complete practice. That’s a team rule.”

“Then I’ll wait for you to finish.”

Draco shouldered his broom and walked to the stands. He could tell he had the team on his side because it took Warrington three tries to convince them to return to practice. Draco took a seat on the bleachers and gingerly rolled his shoulder out. No broken bones, no torn ligaments. Just a lot of bruises. 

Draco watched the team practice and yes, he could have been captain, but he’d never found any joy in coaching. Other people were hard to deal with. They had their own ideas, their own plans and schemes, and they were never as good as Draco’s ideas. But they were convinced of their own brilliance. Or they got offended or upset when given a harsh critique. Or they didn’t try hard enough or pick up on instructions fast enough. No, Draco didn’t want to be captain. There was no point in pulling it from Warrington now.

Draco watched as the sky gradually grew darker. Warrington was keeping the team out late on purpose. He wanted Draco to be out late, in the cold, in the dark, while practicing. He all but grinned as Draco when he finally called the team in. 

That was fine. Draco didn’t mind flying in the dark. A few light spells were all he needed. He flew a couple of laps around hoops, just to warm up again, and then dove. This time, instead of pulling straight up out of the dive, he wrapped his knees around his broom and flipped over backwards. He sped off the opposite direction, upside down and hanging from his broom, in what was known as an Andy’s maneuver. This is what Warrington should be asking of him. It was a harder move, and technically illegal in a school game, but if Draco tried to out-Wronski Potter, he’d fail. 

He flew a dozen more, just to get a feel for it. Another benefit of an Andy’s maneuver was that it was less obvious if he didn’t get as close to the pitch, meaning he could fudge it a little bit. As long as he didn’t fall off his broom, he’d show Potter up. The sky was fully dark by the time he finished and turned his broom back towards the school.

It was far past curfew when he entered. Draco was a Prefect though, meaning the other Prefects would let him off – at least, if it weren’t Weasley and Granger. He strode through the halls and nearly ran right into Bill Weasley. They both paused, equally surprised to see each other. 

Draco had been avoiding Bill over the past few weeks. Ever since realizing the professor was most likely a spy for the Order, he’d found it smarter to keep his distance. No more detentions, no more chats in the library, no more help with Runes. And either Bill was avoiding him too, or their paths hadn’t been crossing as of late. 

Until now, that is.

Bill’s brow furrowed and his mouth tightened. “You’re out late.”

There was a note in his voice that Draco hadn’t heard before. It was harsher, colder. There was an underlying irritation that Draco was used to hearing from the other professors. He hadn’t heard it from Bill though, and it stung. 

“What of it?” His own voice came out sharper than intended.

He watched Bill pause. A myriad of emotions played over his face, too quickly for Draco to name. When Bill spoke again, it was his usual tone of voice, friendly and calm, but somehow, it sounded fake. “Just pointing out that it’s past curfew.” 

Draco didn’t want the professor’s insincerity or lies. He crossed his arms. “So go ahead and take points.” 

It was his preferred way of ending reprimands, jump straight to the consequences and skip the lecture. 

Bill frowned. “Alright. Ten points from Slytherin. But not because you’re out late, rather because you’ve been flying and obviously you took a spill.” He gestured to Draco’s uniform, grass stained and rumpled. “It’s dangerous to fly alone at night. Be more careful next time.”

It wasn’t what Draco had been expecting. It was rational, and fair, and even gentle. It was the way teachers were supposed to discipline. Maybe Draco was being too hard on Bill. Maybe he was being too suspicious. Maybe – 

But Bill had a coat and boots on. That meant he’d been outside. There was no reason for a professor to be outdoors this late. It meant he was probably coming from a Death Eater meeting, once again confirming that Draco could trust him. 

He nodded to the professor, not trusting himself to say anything else, and continued on his way. There was one way to check if Bill had been spying, one way to be certain that his suspicious were right. 

Draco swung by Snape’s office. He heard movement inside, so he knocked and walked in. The Potions Master was currently scouring a pot while another cauldron was set over the fire. 

He gave Draco a long-suffering look when he came in. “Can I help you, Mr. Malfoy?”

Snape’s voice was irritated, but that was standard. Draco would be more concerned if he wasn’t irritated. 

“I wrenched my shoulder because Warrington decided to hit a Bludger at me during a dive. Can I get a bruise-reducer?”

“We have a nurse for a reason.”

“She’s in bed and it’s not an emergency.” 

Snape tipped his head to the cupboard and Draco retrieved the potion. He gestured to the cauldron Snape was scrubbing out. “What happened?”

“Manticore hoof powder was expired. It ended up congealing the potion.” 

Snape said it easily, but Draco doubted the story. One didn’t become a Potions Master and accidently use expired ingredients. This was another incident of Snape having to leave unexpectedly for a Death Eater’s meeting. Bill Weasley was most definitely a spy. And that meant he’d give out another coded message in their homework assignment. At least, Draco was certain with a code. He just couldn’t seem to crack it to prove his deduction.

Draco downed the potion, waiting for Snape to say something else, maybe about the potions he’d stolen a couple of weeks ago. He’d snuck a few others here and there. Snape must know it was him. And there were times when Snape had tried to start a conversation about Death Eaters and blood purity and the Dark Lord. Draco had pushed him away before, but now he had the itch to talk about it, to get it out in the open, to listen to another point of view. Snape played both sides, Draco knew that, and he was sure Snape landed more on Dumbledore’s team. Draco wanted to know his reasons, wanted to compare philosophy. 

“Professor,” he started.

“It’s late, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Snape’s voice wasn’t irritated now; it was dismissive. He gave Draco a dark look, one that said he wanted Draco to leave. 

Fine.

Draco set the empty vial on the countertop, not bothering to wash it, and stalked back to his dorm, feeling oddly lonely.

He watched Bill carefully in class the next day. He tried to see any kind of strain or stress or anxiety in him, but Bill seemed to be his usual friendly self, even though the class was being annoyingly thick. Most of the students were struggling with the concept that specific glyphs could be shared across dialects. They wanted full separation between them, even though all languages had soft barriers, where they bled into each other. 

“Languages borrow from each other,” Bill explained, “particularly when there’s crossover in geographic locations. Can anyone think of English words we use today that were originally from a different language?” 

Granger shot her hand into the air. “Chauffeur,” she said. “And menu, premiere, liaison, hotel. All originally French words.”

“Five points to Gryffindor,” said Bill. “Who else can name a few?” 

It started a chain effect, students shouting out all the words they could think of. It was the curse of a class that contained too many Ravenclaws. They were always ready to out-smart or out-debate each other. 

“Alright, alright,” Bill said, when a full half-hour of class time had been wasted away. “You’re all very intelligent, I get it? How many of you actually speak a second language?” 

Draco reluctantly raised his hand with six others. Some spoke Spanish or French. One girl spoke Mandarin. Granger spoke some Welsh; she’d learned from her grandmother apparently. 

“And you, Draco, what’s your second language?” Bill asked.

“English.”

There were a few titters of laughter as his answer was taken as a joke. Draco rolled his eyes. “Je suis Francais.” 

It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that he was French, at least, the Slytherins knew that the Malfoy family had strong French ties, but not many of the other houses cared that much. 

“Ah, ma copine est Francaise,” Bill returned in a passable accent. He grinned. “Some of you might know her actually, Fleur Delacour.”

It was a rookie mistake Bill had just made. Young, attractive professors should never reveal that much of their social lives to their students because teenagers could get overly invested, especially in their professors’ love lives. There was an immediate gasp in the classroom. A few exclamations rang out. 

“How long have you been dating?” one student asked.

“Is it serious?”

“Is she going to visit anytime soon?”

Fleur Delacour had made quite an impression at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. She was smart, powerful, and incredibly beautiful. She’d made a few friends with the Slytherin girls, Pansy in particular, and as such, Draco had had a few conversations with her. She was, in his opinion, a little too refined for Bill Weasley. Then again, some girls really did like the bad-boy image. A top curse breaker definitely fit that criteria. 

“I’m sorry I said anything!” Bill protested, holding his hands up as the onslaught of questions continued. “Here, have your homework assignment and leave, please!”

It was a good trade, as there was still fifteen minutes left of class. Bill handed out the pages, and as Draco expected, there was something off about the block of runes. 

He glanced around. He was pretty sure the code was going to the new Ravenclaw girl – the one who had joined this year after being ‘homeschooled’. At first, he’d suspected it was going to Granger, but after some study, she looked far too oblivious. And Granger had just turned seventeen. No self-respecting member of the Order would endanger a child. So that left the homeschooled girl. She was either poly-juiced, or it must be Nymphadora Tonks. Draco had never met the woman, even though she was his cousin. In fact, Draco had only met his Aunt Andromeda one, when he was much younger. The relationship between his mother and sister had quickly soured after the first wizarding war. He was betting the student was Tonks. He couldn’t see any polyjuice on her, and Tonks was an Auror. No doubt the Ministry was trying to catch up to the threat of Death Eaters after being so far behind the Order these past several years. 

He watched the Ravenclaw girl quickly stow the homework in her bag. She and the other students began packing up. Draco gathered his own things while he frowned down at the page. 

Realization.

There were moments when things clicked into place for Draco – it’d happened when he realized Bill was a spy, and it happened now, looking at the page. It didn’t hit like a lightning bolt or a runaway hippogriff, rather the information in his brain simply slotted into place. 

French.

The code must be in French. That’s why his attempts at cracking it had ended in gibberish.

“Draco?”

Draco started and looked up. Bill was standing beside his desk, his own bag packed. The classroom was empty.

“You’re staring pretty hard at that homework.”

Bill’s voice was light. Deceptively light. Draco could see the pinch of worry in his eyes, so he made a show of blinking and then looking around him, like he’d been lost in thought. “Oh, I must have drifted off for a minute. I had a late-night practicing for the game. Warrington’s pushing us all hard.”

He was giving too many explanations, and his excuses sounded lame to his ears, but it seemed to set Bill at ease. 

The professor smiled. “I’m looking forward to watching the game. Good luck.”

Draco nodded and left with a quick step. He diverted for his room, to grab the other homework pages, and then all but ran for the library. There were private study cubicles off the main room, nearly all of them empty at this hour. Draco found an empty one, shut the door, and quickly cast several privacy charms. Once secure, he pulled out all the homework pages and set them out on the table. 

He took in a breath. This was it. 

The homework pages were, supposedly, translations of ancient texts that were done by an auto-translation spell. But there were mistakes, because the spells were notoriously prone to errors. But there were times when there wasn’t an error. Draco started by highlighting all the errors and non-errors. There was a pattern between them, one that he could quantify with a numerical value. Once he had the numbers, he began looking for repeating patterns within the digits. These would help him decipher which number-sets corresponded with letter-sets. French had several common word endings, and he tried a few combinations now. It took several hours. He made progress with several sets, only for the code to spit out nonsense words. But with each failure, his motivation grew. As did a grudging respect for Bill. 

Draco took a break three hours in, running to the kitchens to grab something to eat, and then he went right back at it. It took another hour of work for him to stumble upon a replacement that worked, and then it all fell into place. He scribbled out the de-coded messages, his usually neat handwriting losing much of its legibility as he sped through the code. He deciphered all the homework sheets and then say back at scanned through the information.

_Bouchers in France hosting DE meeting._

_Sympathetic players in French cabinet – unclear who._

_R growing restless. Would like to see more raids and revels. M is urging caution and secrecy._

_Push for fewer travel restrictions between countries to allow for DE training in France._

_S is suspected, but safe for now. Suspicions turning to new recruits.___

_ _The messages were simple, but detailed. There were names, places, and a good deal of financial information, which was to be expected. Lucius was trying to form a coup, instead of following the Dark Lord into outright war. Draco knew his father thought the Dark Lord’s tactics were too aggressive. Lucius was a subtle man. He relied on manipulation and coercion instead of outright aggression. _ _

_ _Bill had used a couple abbreviations in the code. R was used for Riddle, aka Voldemort. S was Severus Snape, and by few lines dealing with him, Snape was under a lot of scrutiny. That explained why Bill was spying now, to give Snape some credibility in his lies. M was for Malfoy. _ _

_ _Draco read through the messages again. Apart from the financial information, there wasn’t much that was truly harmful. But Bill had just started. What sort of damage could he do as the year went on? And what was Draco’s responsibility?_ _

_ _A spectrum of possibilities flashed through his head, many of them ending with a target on Bill’s back. But Draco didn’t necessarily want to turn Bill in. As much as he hated to admit it, Bill was a good person. A fair person. And a damned good translator. _ _

_ _Besides, if Draco did turn Bill in, it’d turn a good deal of attention in his direction. How was he supposed to explain how he’d discover the code? It would expose him as a genius and that was something Draco was not willing to do._ _

_ _So he’d wait. _ _

_ _Rule number six: Never take action directly. Wait and see how things play out before making your move._ _

_ _With that decision made, he incinerated his pages of scribblings and left the room._ _

_ _OoOoO_ _

_ _Bill watched Draco leave, his jaw clenched and his footsteps just a feather too light to qualify as ‘stomping’. Guilt rose up, warring with the anger that had been twisting at his insides. He’d been snappish with the boy, and Draco had responded in kind. _ _

_ _It was hard, going to Death Eater meetings, and it was hard coming back. Hogwarts had always been something of a haven for him. As the eldest of seven, the Burrow got crowded fast. He knew his mother did her best to keep him from becoming a full-time nanny, but she had been pregnant for a significant amount of his childhood. Add into the mix an overworked but underpaid father, the chaos of the first wizarding war, and a lot of chores had fallen on his shoulders. Going to school had been a welcome relief, a taste of freedom and independence. It had been a place of safety and growth._ _

_ _But now there was a was a monster lurking outside the walls, just waiting for the right time to strike. Many of the students that walked these halls were prey. If they left, they could find themselves in the jaws of that beast. Other students would leave Hogwarts and walk to the beast, taking their place by his side. They would enact horrible atrocities and violence on other children that had once sat next to them in class. _ _

_ _When Bill had first seen Draco tonight, he hadn’t seen the teenager. He’d seen Lucius Malfoy. Maybe it was the cold look in his eyes or the scowl on his face. Maybe it was the way he was growing his hair out. Bill was beginning to hate Lucius’ hair, always brushed to shining, always falling down his shoulders to rest against silk and satin robes. He flaunted his wealth and privilege as he talked about using his ill-gotten monies to topple the government. The system he would erect would criminalize and punish a quarter of the population just on the basis of their birth. _ _

_ _Draco looked too much like Lucius, although a lot less polished, coming in from a hard Quidditch practice by the look of it. Was it fair, that he got to play Quidditch while his father plotted treason and war crimes? Was it fair that he was spared the fear and terror his classmates felt, simply because he was a Pureblood? Was it even fair that he lived a life of leisure and excess while others struggled to scrape by? Bill had seen the broom on his shoulder – new, shining, expensive. He remembered his own first broom, bought second-hand, several makes out of fashion, and that was passed down to his brothers._ _

_ _Bill squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He was an adult, for Merlin’s sake. He knew life wasn't fair. While his family hadn’t been blessed with wealth, he knew he’d been fortunate in other ways. He had a loving family, supportive parents, a sharp mind, and a healthy body. He’d take those things over money every day._ _

_ _And just because there was a monster outside of Hogwarts, that didn't mean it couldn't be defeated. He was helping in the fight against Voldemort. He would do his part to make the world a safe place so that no one needed to be scared when they left school._ _

_ _His pep talk buoyed his spirits. He headed back to his room in the teacher’s wing. It was a good room, large, comfortable, and overlooking the lake. He took a seat at his desk and called a house-elf for tea and biscuits while he got to work. This was the tricky part. _ _

_ _He started by writing out everything he could remember about the Death Eater meeting, even the most minuscule detail. Then he identified the information that the Ministry would want. That information needed to be distilled into simple sentences, translated into French, and then carefully coded into the runes homework he’d pass out in class tomorrow. It was a long process; the code needed to be complex and foolproof. The original page of information was pressed into a memory book, one that was paired with a book in Dumbledore's office. Often times the Headmaster gleaned more information from these smaller details._ _

_ _He finished in the early hours of the morning and gratefully lay down to sleep._ _

_ _Sleep fought him, as was typical for the nights following a Death Eater meeting. He skipped breakfast, choosing the have the meal delivered so that he could take extra time getting ready for the day. Bill was sometimes accused of being a vain person, mostly by Charlie, the twins, and Ron. They had never really cared about their appearance. Bill liked looking good. He'd gotten the best blend of features from his parents, Arthur's tall, lanky frame and his eyes. Molly's smile and nose. He’d received a lot of positive attention for his appearance, and it’d given him the courage to be more daring with his fashion. His rocker-style had only developed with age, much to his mother’s consternation. And Fleur often said a bespoke suit would do him wonders, but, well, Bill just didn’t feel confident in a suit. _ _

_ _He grabbed his comfort clothes today, his favorite pair of black jeans, his brightest gold-button up, and his dragon-scale jacket on top. Thus armored for the day, he headed to his first class.   
Teaching put him in a better mood. Bill genuinely liked teenagers. He liked their energy and their passion. He liked that they were curious about the world and that they were still cultivating their persona and developing their interests and passions, careers and hobbies, values and priorities. It only took half of his first class for his mood to shift into the general contentedness he usually felt, although, he did feel a pang of anxiety anytime he saw the stack of coded papers in his bag. _ _

_ _But the code was ingenious. No one could crack it. No one would even discover it. _ _

_ _And yet, it still felt so obvious. _ _

_ _Tonks was in the last class of the day, still holding her disguise as a student. She had a couple of friends, some of the quieter, more studious students. Bill knew it must be hard for her. She was louder than that, boisterous and rowdy. But she played her part well, blending in with the 'invisible' Ravenclaws that were too caught up with books to join social events and the like. _ _

_ _Bill carefully did not catch her gaze. She would know it was the code by the homework assignment. Instead he lectured on dialects and variations. The kids didn’t like that some of the dialect bled into each other. It added an additional complication to translating, but they took his explanation rather well, although he did inadvertently create a bit of a stir when he admitted to dating Fleur Delacour. It actually worked in his favor though, creating general chaos as he passed out the homework page. _ _

_ _With the promise of an early dismissal, the class quickly empty. All except Draco. He was staring at the homework page. Bill had one moment of panic – a vision of the entire operation being blown._ _

_ _“Draco?”_ _

_ _The boy started._ _

_ _“You’re staring pretty hard at that homework,” Bill said, keeping his voice light. But he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. _ _

_ _He watched Draco blink and look about the room, confused. “Oh, I must have drifted off for a minute. I had a late-night practicing for the game. Warrington’s pushing us all hard.”_ _

_ _Yes, Bill had seen him out late. And Draco spoke easily, honestly. Bill couldn’t see any signs of comprehension on his face. He hadn’t spotted the code; he was just an overly tired teenager. _ _

_ _Bill felt his heart rate start to slow. He smiled. “I’m looking forward to watching the game. Good luck.”_ _

_ _Draco nodded and left the room. _ _

_ _Bill let out a sigh of relief. _ _

_ _But the paranoia crept back in at dinner. Draco spoke French, and he was good a translating. He’d told Bill as much; he’d said that translating made sense to him. There were people in the world who were preternaturally good at things. Things that just clicked. It was like that with Bill and codes. But even he wouldn't have figured out a code this complex in his sixth year. He wouldn’t even had noticed it was there. It was slightly mollifying, but maybe he'd peek at Draco's file in the school, just to be on the safe side._ _

_ _Minerva called his attention. “Excited for the game this weekend? You know, Potter's nearly as good as Charlie on a broom."_ _

_ _"I've heard rumor of it," Bill agreed, ready to distract his thoughts onto more light-hearted topics. "By all accounts, it ought to be a good game."_ _

_ _"That it should," Dumbledore said, overhearing their conversation. "It reminds me to grab some sweets from Hogsmeade before the game. I’m all out of Caramel Cremes, and I’m really craving them tonight. Nothing quite like a caramel after dinner.” _ _

_ _Bill caught his gaze and nodded. The Headmaster had dropped the name of a candy and a time. He wanted to talk. _ _

_ _Bill headed to his office after dinner. Dumbledore had a dish of the candy on his desk and Bill took one. For some reason, having something sweet to chew on helped him mentally chew on tougher news. _ _

_ _"I’ve done some research on horcruxes,” Dumbledore said. “I admit, I had not realized how powerful they were.” _ _

_ _"How powerful?" Bill asked, although he was sure he didn’t want to know the answer. _ _

_ _Dumbledore had given him a brief explanation when he’d first come across them. Horcruxes were a piece of a wizard’s soul that splintered off from the core during the act of pre-meditated murder. The concept was already terrifying. If Dumbledore was admitting they were even more powerful than originally thought… well, Bill was admittedly horrified. _ _

_ _"I’ve been researching objects that Tom chose for his horcrux, or, as we’ve ascertained, horcruxes. I think he started with just one horcrux, most likely kept in Nagini. But once he found a measure of immortality, I think his focus changed to power.”_ _

_ _“What do you mean?”_ _

_ _“One horcrux is all he needed for immortality. The fact that he continued suggests he was after another goal. When I began researching what items he most likely used for his other horcruxes, I noticed that he was specifically choosing powerful items, items that have their own magical energy. With his soul attached to these horcruxes, he can leech off that energy. That will lend him even more power. It will make him capable of great and terrible feats.”_ _

_ _“So we need to disconnect him from these sources of power.”_ _

_ _“If we don’t, then I’m not sure how much chance Harry has against him, no matter what the prophecy says.”_ _

_ _Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. It was dark news indeed. "Have you told Harry yet, about the horcruxes?"_ _

_ _“Not at this time. But I will be informing the members of the Order, and as Ms. Granger is now seventeen, she will also be informed. I have no doubt she will fill in the others."_ _

_ _Bill nodded. “We could really use some good news shortly, couldn’t we?”_ _

_ _“Well, while we’re on the topic of bad news, Severus found a bug in his office. He’s leaving it be for now, but clearly we have a spy in our midst.” _ _

_ _"Stevick?" Bill asked._ _

_ _"Most likely."_ _

_ _"Do we think he's for the Ministry or Death Eaters?"_ _

_ _"Either prevents its own challenges."_ _

_ _“Isn’t that the truth.”_ _

_ _Dumbledore smiled. “Do take care of yourself, Bill. It’s not an easy task you’ve undertaken.”_ _

_ _Bill got up and snagged another caramel on the way out. He retired early to bed and fell asleep, completely forgetting his plan to check in on the school records of one Draco Malfoy._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is an edited version of a completed story on fanfiction . net. Over there, I critique my own writing while I tear apart the earlier versions of the chapters and add in a heck-of-a-lot more words. Just to make it easy on myself, lol. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!


	9. Rule 7: Avoid split second decisions

Rule #7: Avoid split second decisions.

“This is our day!” Warrington shouted, his voice echoing through the Slytherin locker rooms. “This is our field. This is our game.”

The team stomped their feet in response, building up the rhythm. Draco did as well, anything to release the energy that was thrumming through his body. He could hear the students outside in the stadium, already cheering. The first Quidditch game of the year was always the biggest and rowdiest. And Warrington had his sights set on victory. Now that they had a true opponent, his anger and rage had been re-directed from Draco and onto Gryffindor. It manifested now into an impassioned speech, and as much as Draco detested Warrington, he had to admit the older boy could be downright charismatic.

Right now, Warrington painted a picture of injustice. The Gryffindors were favored. The Gryffindors were beloved. The Gryffindors had lorded over Slytherin for far too long. The team stomped their feet and booed and hissed. Draco tried not to be taken away by the emotion. His position as Seeker required focus and calm. Instead, Draco transferred every bit of his energy into his right hand. He tapped his thumb to his index finger and then his ring finger, then he backtracked to his middle and then his pinkie in a 1-3-2-4 pattern (or rather, a 2-4-3-5 pattern if he were using correct fingering numbers.) His piano teacher had taught him that exercise. It supposedly helped with building dexterity in his fingers. Draco used it anytime there wasn’t a hard surface to drum on. Draco often had the impulse to be active, to keep some part of his body moving, whether it was drumming his fingers or tapping a foot or bouncing his leg as he sat in class. His mind was always racing. He felt unbalanced if his body wasn’t similarly active. 

“We will not be silent in this outrage!” Warrington cried, striking his fist into the air. “Who are we?”

“Slyth-er-in!” the team chanted.

“Who is cunning?”

“Slyth-er-in!”

“Who is destined for greatness?”

“Slyth-er-in!”

“Who is going to win?”

“SLTYH-ER-IN!” the team screamed, jumping up and down in fervor, and this time Draco couldn’t help but jump too. 

Warrington pointed at the door. “To our victory!”

The team turned and raced for the pitch. Warrington dropped a heavy hand on Draco’s shoulder, hauling him back.

"Just keep Potter from catching the Snitch until we're in the lead. Do you think you can manage that?" The thick fingers on his shoulder squeezed in warning. 

Draco smirked at the attempt to frighten him. "Just watch me.”

He ran after his team into the bright, chilly day and heard a great cheer erupt as he stepped onto the field. He pointed at the Slytherin stands, acknowledging their praise, and they screamed louder. He leapt onto his broom and joined his team in the air as the Gryffindor team exited. Potter received a larger shout, but Draco was used to that by now. He narrowed his eyes as the other Seeker took his place, mirroring Draco’s position in the sky.

Hooch flew into the middle of the pitch, her whistle clenched in her teeth and the Golden Snitch held wriggling in her gloved hand. 

“Captains, are your teams ready?” she asked. 

The team captains raised their hands in affirmation, and she blew a quick burst on her whistle to ready the players. She raised the Snitch into the air and then blew a longer note as she released it.

The game began.

It was nearly impossible to catch a Snitch right from the start. The referee started far enough away from the Seekers that the glint of gold all but disappeared from sight, but that didn’t mean Draco didn’t dive down, just to see if it was possible. Harry did the same, their course a direct line towards each other. Draco could see Potter’s eyes, his intent at holding his arc as long as possible. It was a pointless display of bravado, but Draco followed suit. Both of them broke off at the last possible second to the gasps and cheers of the audience. 

Then there was a larger cheer – a great shout from the Slytherins followed by a groan from the Gryffindors. The Slytherin Chasers had already scored. Draco grinned and swept up to circle the field. The Slytherin Chasers had been practicing hard, as had the Beaters, working together to keep their opponents at bay. The plan was to score fast and frequently, better to break Gryffindor’s momentum. Draco watched as the Slytherin Beaters knocked a bludger into the path of a Gryffindor pass. The Slytherin Chasers recovered and scored again. Draco applauded along with the fans. 

Draco wove about the field, searching for the Snitch but also keeping a close eye on Potter. The game play between Chasers and Beaters was fierce. Slytherin clearly had the advantage – the team scoring twice more in the first ten minutes. He felt a stirring of optimism in his chest. They just might be able to win this one, as long as he could keep Potter from catching the Snitch. 

He spotted gold thirty minutes into the game, when Slytherin was up 120-40. Harry spotted it the same time he did. There was a race and a jostle, Harry quickly taking the lead in the case, but Draco didn’t relent. He took a few risky turns to keep up with the Gryffindor and then finally managed to knock Harry off-course. The Snitch vanished again. 

Harry pulled up in frustration and Draco drew level with him. 

“Having a good game, Potter?” he drawled. He didn’t have to insult the boy-hero to get him riled up anymore, he just had to open his mouth, and he found that sort of power gratifying. 

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Potter snapped.

Draco shrugged languidly. "Just trying to make conversation. It may be a long game, you know, seeing as you can't rely on your broom to win for you now that I’ve a Firebolt as well.” He pretended to wipe a bit of dust from his broom, knowing from experience how infuriating that little act could be.

"So your father bought you a Firebolt, did he?" asked Potter. "Was it a 'breaking free of Azkaban' gift?"

Draco's eyes darkened. He resisted the urge to spit out something cruel because that would just let Harry know that he hit a nerve. “Actually, I bought it myself.” There was another cheer as Slytherin scored again. He smirked. “Looks like you may not win this game.”

"It doesn't matter what kind of broom you have, Malfoy. Just because you can pay your way in, doesn't mean you can pay to win." Harry met his gaze, raised his eyebrows, and then launched into a spectacular dive. 

Draco took a moment to huff out a laugh, because the comment had been surprisingly pithy for Potter, and then he grabbed tight to his Firebolt and hurtled after the Gryffindor Seeker.

He heard the whistle of wind past his ears and the cries from the stands below. He heard the excited commentary from a sixth year Hufflepuff. “Potter goes into a dive, but the Snitch is nowhere in sight. Malfoy follows Potter!"

The shouts of the crowd got louder as the green turf loomed closer. He watched Potter barrel towards it, pulling up at the last possible second. The bristles on his broom bent nearly in half as he ‘swept the pitch’, flicking grass and dirt into the air. 

It was a beautiful Wronski, worthy of Krum, and Draco knew he couldn’t do any better. His mind whirled with numbers and calculations as he sped towards the pitch. He wrapped his legs around the broomstick and then, when he thought he might crash into the ground, he yanked back on his broom. He immediately knew he hadn’t timed it as well as Harry. His broom bristles only flicked at the top of the grass. Had he been copying Potter’s feint, he would have come out the loser. But he yanked up harder than Potter had, flipping himself completely upside down. He sped off in the opposite direction, still hanging from his broom. He reached out a hand to brush through the grass as he did, creating a ripple across the field. 

The stadium went wild. 

Draco rolled up to right himself, unable to keep the grin from his face as the students jumped to their feet, shouting and cheering his name. 

"I don't believe it!" the commentator exclaimed. "Potter pulls a Wronski, and Malfoy executes a perfect Andy's Maneuver!"

Draco laughed in triumph; the noise drowned out by the audience in the stadium. He took a quick lap over the stadium seats, hands raised to the sky. The Slytherins cheered loudest of all, but even the professors were clapping for him, although he knew some did so begrudgingly. 

Draco didn’t care. Nothing was going to lessen his success. He pressed his broom faster, ready to catch up with Harry for a bit of gloating. The other Seeker saw him coming and sped away. Draco followed in a mini-game of chase, just to be obnoxious, weaving through the Chasers and nearly getting hit by a Bludger sent his way from the Gryffindor team. It was the first Bludger they’d actually hit with some direction the whole game. Draco turned to shout a sarcastic congratulations to them when a high, keening whistle pierced through the pitch.

It was loud, loud enough that the noise of the game was drowned out. Draco whipped around, eyes seeking the source of the noise as his brain tried to identify it. His eyes won, latching onto a large, winged form that rose up from behind the stands.

_Great vampire bat,_ his brain belatedly supplied. It’d taken longer to identify because there weren’t any vampire bats in Britain. They preferred warmer climates. So how had – 

His intellectual musing was cut off as the creature shot towards the flyers in the air. Suddenly Draco was playing a very different game. 

Great vampire bats were large – easily twice the size of a full-grown thestral. The wingspan alone was intimidating. And it was fast. It crossed the pitch in a matter of seconds, its great claws stretched out, lashing first at Simone Crawford and then at Ginny Weasley. Both Chasers dodged out of its way. The bat wheeled around and opened its mouth.

_Shockwave scream,_ Draco’s brain identified, just as the shriek rippled out. The noise was ear-splitting, and the force that blasted from it sent the Quidditch players tumbling in air.

It felt like he’d been hit by a hippogriff. Draco was flung into a tail-over-front spin, just managing to hold onto his broom. He leaned into the spin, to get control over the momentum, and then pulled up and out of it. The world spun around him for a moment. He shook his head to counter the dizziness and took a quick glance around the field. No one had fallen from the brooms, but the bat was coming at them again.

A spell whizzed out from the stadium, and then more. The bat screeched, non-magical this time, and dove at the stands.

Draco tipped his broom down, ready to get to land, but ricocheting and mis-directed spells forced him to veer off course. The bat was being attacked from all directions, creating a spider web of spell work beneath him. It forced him and the other players further into the air. The bat strafed the stands, heedless of the curses thrown at it. No one seemed aware of the biology of great vampire bats. Their skin was mostly impervious to magic. The only vulnerable area was the face. 

Harry flew past him, his wand out and pointed, a solo charge against the bat. 

“Bloody idiot,” Draco spat, spurring his broom on to match. There was no way one student was going to take it out alone. 

The bat gave another magical screech, nearly collapsing a portion of the bleachers, and then it swooped towards the Ravenclaw benches. A powerful firework charm exploded in front of it. The bat tumbled away, hissing and screaming, and turned its attention back to the pitch.

Harry was closest to it. His spell hit the creature’s back and bounced off. Draco ducked below, wondering if he could get a line of sight at its face, but then another spell hit the creature. It fumbled, dropping suddenly and smacking into Harry. Draco heard a shout of surprise, and then Harry was falling, nearly right on top of him.

Acceleration due to gravity is 9.81 meters per second squared. 

Draco was a little more than a meter below Harry when he fell.

Laws of physics gave him half a second to react.

He hadn’t planned on catching Harry, but half a second wasn’t much time to decide on a course of action. His hand shot out before he ever realized what he was doing. His fingers latched around Harry’s wrist. He was promptly flipped upside down, but he’d been practicing the Andy’s maneuver all month. His legs immediately wrapped around the broom, holding tight. The force of catching Potter’s body wrenched his shoulder, but it was buffered by the broom, which dipped under the weight of both students. Draco caught his breath and stared into the shocked expression of Harry Potter.

A scream and a thunderous crash distracted him. His view was upside down, but he could see the bat sweeping about the stands. Bursts of colors exploded as professors and students alike tried to bring it down. 

Draco needed to get down too. There was no way he could haul Harry up. He tightened his grip on the broom and directed it down at a slope gentle enough not to slide them off. 

But it wasn’t going to be fast enough. He heard the bat screech again and felt the shadow pass over them as it darted from the open air to the stadium. Bright lights flashed and crackled through the sky, aimed at the bat, but some going awry. Draco’s grip on Potter slipped. He pushed the broom faster, risking balance for speed, just as a gust of wind blew out from the stands. It slammed into them, easily breaking his precarious grasp on Harry and his broom.

They were still five meters in the air.

They both fell.

A flash of yellow light encircled Harry just as he was about to hit the ground. Draco plummeted passed him. The same yellow light washed over him, but not fast enough. He crashed into the ground, his left leg hitting first and folding beneath his body. His back and head hit next. He felt a rip of pain, the cushioning charms unable to contain the full force of impact. He bounced once, the air wooshing from his lungs. Lights flared in his vision. 

For a second, the world was reduced to pain. His lungs burned. His leg was on fire. His head throbbed. Then his body heaved in a breath and the world reset.

He heard the sounds of battle in the stands – frightened shouts and whizzing spells and the screech of the bat. He could see Quidditch players still flying in the air. There was still danger.

He turned onto his side, wondering if it was possible to get to his feet. A pair of boots stepped beside him. Draco dragged his gaze up. Harry Potter was standing over him, wand out, eyes focused on the stands. Draco followed his gaze and saw that the bat was finally losing the battle. Its wings beat slower and slower. Its screeches became weaker. A well-placed curse finally toppled the creature. 

Draco let out a breath. He rolled onto his back and squinted against the sun. Merlin, he hurt.

He felt Harry step closer and then his face intruded into his line of sight. “You alright, Malfoy?”

There was too much concern in his voice. And a fair deal of confusion. The full knowledge of what he’d done hit him as hard as he’d hit the field. He’d just saved Harry Potter, his rival, his nemesis, the sworn enemy of the Dark Lord. 

What had he done? And what would the other students think? 

Even worse, what would his father think?

Draco raised his hands to cover his face. “Merde.” His voice cracked over the epitaph. 

“Malfoy?”

Rule number seven: Avoid split second decisions. 

But there was still a way to salvage this. Draco pulled his hands down and turned a glare onto the Gryffindor. “You tried to kill me!”

Harry stepped back, clearly baffled. “What?” 

Draco pushed himself up to his elbows, drawing on every ounce of contempt he had. “You nearly pulled me off my broom!”

“You – you grabbed _me_.”

Draco let out a burst of incredulous laughter. “I grabbed _you_? Seriously? That’s what you came up with? You ought to be expelled for falling into me like that!”

Harry took another step back. Draco watched his brow knit, no doubt trying to recall exactly what had happened. He wasn’t convinced, not yet. That was fine. There were more people to sway, and two of them were hurrying towards them now.

Dumbledore and McGonagall immediately ran to Harry. Dumbledore dropped his hands onto Harry’s shoulder. “Are you alright? Are you injured at all?”

Harry shook his head and then gestured over at Draco. 

The Headmaster turned to him, gratitude in his eyes. “That was a very brave thing you did, Mr. Malfoy.” 

Draco affixed a look of outrage on his face. It was easy. His leg was screaming at him and his head was throbbing and he was clearly injured, and yet everyone had run to Potter first. “I want to press charges for assault.”

“What?”

Draco jabbed an accusatory finger at Harry. “Did you see him grab me? He yanked me from my broom and all but crushed me in the fall! I’m sure he broke my leg. Absolutely sure of it.”

His theatrics worked. Dumbledore’s expression fell, like Draco had somehow disappointed him, and McGonagall rolled her eyes, clearly dismissing his complaints. Draco was relieved when Snape joined them. Unlike the other professors, he immediately knelt by Draco.

“Where are you hurt?”

“My leg is broken,” Draco said. “Probably crushed.” He sent another withering look in Harry’s direction. 

Snape began the process of unlacing his boot. Draco had no doubt he was trying to be gentle, but each tug at the laces sent a jolt of fire up his leg. He grit his teeth and looked away, trying to ignore the pain. 

Bill ran up to join the others. “Bat’s secure. Hagrid’s got it now.”

“Thank you, Bill.”

“We’ll have to get Pomfrey,” McGonagall fretted, surveying the Quidditch stands. “And we’ll have the Prefects start organizing a transportation brigade for the students who won’t be able to ambulate to the infirmary.” She turned to Draco, her mouth pulled tight in a pinch. “Can you walk, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco felt a surge of resentment. “Do you think I’d be lying here if I couldn’t?” His voice came out thick with venom. He hadn’t intended that much vitriol, but bloody hell, he hurt, and no one was doing a damn thing to help. 

“Severus, how bad is it?” McGonagall asked.

Snape finally pulled Draco’s boot away and Draco hissed in a breath as it jostled his leg even further. Snape slit his trouser leg up mid-thigh and pulled the flaps away. Draco looked down and immediately wished he hadn’t. Legs weren’t supposed to look like that. He barely registered the gasp from McGonagall or the muttered ‘Sweet Merlin’ from Bill. His leg was swollen, his knee nearly twice its usual side and his kneecap was off-center. _Detached_, Draco thought, a little numbly. And he’d been correct in his complaints. His leg was broken. His entire lower leg appeared crooked, like both the tibia and fibula had shifted two inches to the right. His skin was turning alarming shades of red and purple. 

Draco dropped his head back down the grass and swallowed hard. He wasn’t one to faint from the sight of blood or injury, but it was different seeing his own body damaged. It stole his breath for a moment. And the pain seemed somehow worse. And he might have a mild concussion. His head hurt.

There was a bit of chaos around him. Students began heading towards the castle, herded by the Prefects. Some were crying, some injured, most of them loudly speculating on what had happened or recounting their experiences in the battle. Pomfrey arrived on scene minutes later to triage the cases of injured students. Draco’s leg, while a severe injury, wasn’t life threatening. 

“You’ll have to lie still until we can get an immobilization potion,” Pomfrey told him. She looked to Snape, who nodded and got to his feet. 

“I’ll get right on it.”

“We’ll need three batches total,” Pomfrey said. “Little Bertha Leroy has a splintered wrist and I don’t like the look of Dean Thomas’s ankle.”

Snape gave Draco a nod in parting and then hurried back towards the castle. Pomfrey uncorked a pain potion and helped Draco sit up enough to drink it down. It was just a generic numbing potion, one that hardly touched the pain from his leg, but at least the throbbing in his head dulled. 

“Someone needs to stay with him,” Pomfrey said, packing her bag and readying to leave for the next student. 

Draco looked over and realized she was addressing the quartet of Gryffindors still standing beside him, or rather, a comfortable distance away. 

“Potter, you can head in doors,” McGonagall said. “Albus, you can see to the rest of the students and faculty. I’ll wait with Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco did not want her waiting with him, and it was clear from her tone that she didn’t want to wait with him either. But it wasn’t as if Potter or Dumbledore were any better. Draco’s eyes slid to the only other person, Bill Weasley. For some reason, even though he knew the professor was a spy, he’d rather have his company. Bill was nice, and right now, Draco wanted nice, not poorly concealed disdain. 

Bill caught his gaze. The professor paused a moment, and then his eyes seemed to crinkle up at the corners. “I’ll stay with him.” 

It was embarrassing how much relief Draco felt as the professor stepped forward and took a seat beside him. The crowd around him finally dispersed and Draco felt a modicum of tension leave him. 

“It was a terrific spill,” Bill said, in his easy way of making conversation. “I’ve been involved in a fair share myself but none quite as dramatic as yours. Of course, Quidditch doesn’t usually involve great vampire bats.” 

Draco was grateful for the attempt at levity and the distraction. He pulled in a couple of deep breaths, trying to convince his body to relax further. 

“Charlie once broke both his legs playing Quidditch on this pitch,” Bill continued. “I can’t quite remember who we were playing, but he and the other Seeker were coming at the Snitch from opposite directions.” Bill demonstrated with his hands, showing the players flying in and colliding mid-air. “Both of them got knocked off their brooms. Charlie caught the Snitch mid-fall to win the game. He spent the next week in the infirmary until his bones mended. Of course, my mother thought the whole thing was my fault. That I should have somehow prevented it.” Bill rolled his eyes. “Hazards of being the oldest child, I suppose.”

Draco thought of his own brother and wondered if he’d ever felt the same. But their interactions had been extremely limited, and he’d passed when Draco was so young that he’d never been used as a stand-in nanny. Not that the family would have approved anyway. 

Pomfrey circled back around to check on him. “How’s the pain?”

“Leg still hurts. Head feels better.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Seven.”

She nodded and pulled out another vial. As soon as Draco tasted it, he knew what it was. Gardner’s Elixir of Relief. It wasn’t just a pain-reducer; it was a tranquilizer and a mild euphoric. Draco had been plied with several of these the summer he turned thirteen. It was Narcissa’s favorite potion for when she was coming off of a binge. 

The potion felt slick going down his throat. The effect was nearly immediate. Warmth. Peace. Comfort. The ground beneath him seemed to soften, like he was lying on a pillow, and the wind that had been so harsh before gentled into a soothing breeze. Draco felt the tension in his muscles ease. 

“That should have put him to sleep,” Pomfrey said to Bill, the frown evident in her voice. 

Draco turned his head, very nearly telling her that his tolerance to potions was higher than expected, but he remembered at the last second that it was a secret. He pressed his lips shut, feeling oddly out of control.

“Every broken a bone before, Draco?” Bill asked.

“A few,” Draco said, hearing himself speak but not consciously choosing to do so. His brain was disconnected from his body. His mouth was moving on its own accord. “Broke my wrist when I was learning to play Quidditch at the manor. That was the first.”

"How old were you?" 

"Six. Father was watching me, but I dodged a Bludger and fell off my broom.

"Ouch," said Bill, sympathy evident in his voice. “Did you cry?"

"No.” The truth was Draco hadn’t cried since the day he was born, courtesy of his mother and an anti-crying charm left on him for seven years. Charms left on too long could cause permanent damage. He didn’t tell Bill that though. That was another secret. "I got out of piano lessons for two weeks, so it wasn't so bad." 

"The first time I broke a bone," said Bill, “was when I was nineteen and was on this dig in the Sahara. They had just discovered the ruins of an old mage’s temple and we were trying to get past the entrance curses. Well, we tried the wrong spell and caused the whole thing to come collapsing down on us. I got a boulder to the leg and it just snapped. I still haven't told my mother about that one."

Bill laughed at the memory and Draco felt his lips turn up. "Lucius told Narcissa I fell down the stairs. She thinks Quidditch is dangerous."

“Mothers have to worry,” Bill said. “It’s in their genes.”

Draco tried to wave him off, but his arm was too heavy to lift. “She was worried because she had a party that night. Didn’t want any interference.”

Bill opened his mouth like he was going to protest, and Draco didn’t quite know why. Of course Narcissa hadn’t cared. She never cared about Draco, or even Lucius for that matter. 

“She only cares about her parties. She drinks a lot, you know, alcohol and potions.”

Bill’s face did something strange. Draco felt his own face scrunching to match. Was he upset?

Pomfrey leaned into his field of vision. “Draco, is it safe at your house?”

“What?” Draco asked, his brain trying to process the non-sequitor. He couldn’t quite manage it. His head was full of fog. 

“Safe,” Pomfrey repeated, her tone insistent. “Are you safe at home?”

Some form of thought wriggled in his brain. She was asking a dangerous question, he was sure of it. This was yet another secret to be kept, but he couldn’t quite remember why. He didn’t like that he was so confused. He turned away to look at the sky, trying desperately to remember why he had so many secrets. 

He heard her start the question again, but the Bill’s voice interrupted, whispering something he couldn’t quite hear. Pomfrey retorted something, but then moved down to his leg. She ran a few more diagnostic spells and prodded his knee.

Fresh pain shot up. Draco hissed and tried to squirm away.

“Just a minute,” Pomfrey soothed. 

She did something that sent a flash of pain all the way up his hip, but then the pain settled somewhat. Draco looked down to see that his kneecap was now in place, although his lower leg was still severely broken. 

She looked up towards the castle. “Severus is coming with the potion. It’s a mite uncomfortable, so here.” She took out another vial, and really, Draco should say no. He shouldn’t take the potion, something bad could happen, but she held it to his lips before he could formulate a response.

It went down just as slick. The ground was no longer a pillow; it was a black hole, sucking him under. Draco didn’t want to go under. Black holes were dangerous. They trapped objects in their gravitational field and tore them to shreds. Time dilated and stretched. Matter broke down. Nothing escaped, not even light. 

He tried pushing himself up to get away. Bill dropped a hand on his shoulder and the point of contact was relieving. He was sure Bill wouldn’t let him get sucked into a black hole. 

“Are you alright?” Bill asked.

Then again, maybe Bill _would_ let him get trapped in a black hole. He was a spy after all. An Order member. An enemy. Draco had decoded the messages himself. His brain took him to that code now, a beautiful, complex tapestry of math and runes. It was almost soothing to recount each step of hidden data, a distraction from the darkness trying to swallow him. He tried to recite it, but his voice wasn’t working. 

“Severus is coming with the potion, just a few more minutes,” Bill said.

Severus was a part of the code, wasn’t he? 

“S is for Severus,” Draco remembered. “M is for Malfoy.” Was he talking? His voice seemed far away. “R is for Riddle.” He felt a splash of humor and laughed. “R for riddle. The whole page is a riddle.”

Movement. A brush of a hand leaving his shoulder. Draco opened his eyes. When had he closed them?

Bill had pulled back. “What did you say?”

It took a moment for Draco to remember. “The riddle,” he repeated. But that wasn’t the right word for it. Why was it hard to find the word? “The… the code. The code in the homework.”

Bill’s jaw dropped. His face went pale. 

Darkness again. Draco was still being sucked under. That damned black hole. He should have studied more astrophysics. 

The hand was back on his shoulder. It shook him but Draco couldn’t focus anymore. There were more faces around him, and then a potion being poured down his throat. His leg jerked and fire spread.

Darkness. 

* * * * *

Bill felt a pang of nostalgia as he climbed into the Hogwarts stands. He remembered watching games as a student – the smell of the wooden bleachers mixed with the scent of concession snacks, sweets and crisps and the butterbeer the older students would bring. He entered the box reserved for the professors and Dumbledore waved him over. Bill noticed that he tried waving to Jameson and Stevick as well. Jameson was clearly too nervous to sit next to the Headmaster; she ducked her head and quickly sat next to Sprout instead. Stevick outright ignored the Headmaster and sat in the back of the professors’ box, arms crossed and jaw tight. 

Bill thought if the man was a ministry plant, he was doing a poor job of integrating and gaining insider information. He took the seat next to Dumbledore, nodding in greeting. “Headmaster.”  
Dumbledore smiled and then opened the bag currently sitting on his lap. Bill knew that Dumbledore had a propensity for sweets, but the sheer number of candies that was held inside boggled his mind. 

“Care for a sweet?” Dumbledore asked casually, like he didn’t have a bag that was larger on the inside and held a collection of candy that could rival Honeydukes. Bill helped himself to a toffee stick. “Minerva’s got the libations,” Dumbledore told him. 

“Let’s not announce it to the students,” McGonagall said, claiming the seat on the other side of Dumbledore. But she passed a flask down. “Perks of being a professor.”

It was a perk indeed, and her flask contained a very fine whiskey. Bill supposed that it was a step up from sitting in the stands as a student, but still not quite as good as playing himself.

The students let out a thunderous cheer as the players took the field, shooting into the air and taking their starting positions. Merlin, but he missed flying. He’d been a Chaser in his time at Hogwarts, and the memories came back – flying through the air, whipping the Quaffle to his teammates, scoring on the Keeper. 

“Not quite the same, is it?” Dumbledore asked, catching the wistfulness on his face.

“Not quite,” Bill agreed. “But…,” he took another swig from the flask before passing it back, “this isn’t too bad.”

The stadium fell silent as Hooch raised the Snitch in her hand. With a blast of her whistle, she released it and the game was on. 

There was a flurry of activity from the Slytherin Chasers. They quickly gained control of the Quaffle and with a few short passes, made their way down to the Gryffindor hoops and scored, the Quaffle going straight through Ron’s hands. Bill winced in sympathy. The Slytherin students sent up a great shout; the Gryffindors booed. The Chasers reset, the Gryffindor team taking the Quaffle out. Ginny lined up to receive a pass, but she was knocked off course by a well-placed Bludger. Slytherin intercepted and scored again.

Bill clapped his hands together in frustration. “Come on, Gryffindor!”

His voice was lost in the sea of others, but even with the support, Gryffindor began lagging behind. From his vantage point, it was easy to spot the problem. It wasn’t that the Gryffindor Chasers were bad, or that Ron was a terrible Keeper, rather the Slytherins had the advantage when it came to their Beaters. They used the Bludgers far more effectively, interfering with passes and knocking the Gryffindor players out of the way. The Gryffindor Beaters just couldn’t keep up.

“We should have started training replacements for your brothers sooner,” McGonagall said. She took a large swallow from the flask. “But we thought we’d have them another year.”

Bill winced as Slytherin scored yet again. His brothers Fred and George had been long-standing Beaters on the Gryffindor team, and their sudden departure had left quite the gap. 

“Of course, Harry can still catch the Snitch,” McGonagall said. “We’ve got Slytherin beat there.”

Bill turned his attention to Harry. It was clear he was a natural flyer because his technique was sloppy – his shoulders a little too rounded and grip a little too forwards on the broom, but none of that impacted his speed or maneuverability. 

He got to see Harry truly fly when he spotted the Snitch. Slytherin was up 120-40, and a catch now would mean Gryffindor victory. Bill cheered along with the rest as Harry put on a terrific display of air-acrobatics, zipping through the air like he was born there. Draco, playing Seeker for Slytherin, only just managed to keep up with him, despite having the better technique. The chase lasted a long forty seconds before Draco managed to knock Harry off course and the Snitch was lost.

Gryffindor let out one massive groan and Slytherin cheered. Severus turned around to give Minerva a smirk. “Looks like you may have a losing year.”

“Don’t count us out yet.”

Even as she said those words, Harry went into a spectacular dive. From the way Draco paused, Bill figured it was a feint, but he still jumped to his feet with the rest. Seekers often used feints as a way to show off their skills, or as an attempt to plow their opponent into the field. Harry’s dive was spectacular, nearly straight down, barreling forward with a speed that made Bill’s breath catch.  
Draco followed and the students screamed even louder.

Harry continued his dive, even past the point that Bill would have pulled out. He sucked in a breath, a few students screamed, and then Harry yanked back on his broom. Had he been riding anything less than a Firebolt, he would have smashed into the ground, but the broom responded beautifully, arcing up and out of the dive, the bristles on his broom sweeping up a cloud of dirt and grass.

Bill shouted along with the rest, his hands pumping into the air, even as Draco continued his dive, only a few seconds behind Harry. His path and speed were nearly identical to Harry’s, and the roar of the Slytherins grew as their Seeker attempted the feint. Draco pulled up just a split second before Harry had. Bill immediately knew he’d over-rotated. There was a gasp from the audience as his broom flipped completely over, but Draco didn’t fall. He held on, upside down, and sped across the field, a ripple of grass creating a wake behind him. 

The cheers turned deafening. The Slytherin stands were particularly raucous, clearly feeling that their Seeker had won that display. Bill cheered along; it was impossible not to. What sort of school Quidditch game could boast an expert Wronski fient and a successful Andy’s maneuver? 

Draco took a victory lap around the stands, flying close enough to the crowd that Bill could see the triumph on his face. He couldn’t begrudge him the moment of victory. Harry was the better flyer, but Draco had outplayed him by completing the more difficult stunt. 

The crowd had been re-ignited by the Seekers. The students stayed on their feet, getting a little rowdy. Bill had forgotten how loud the Quidditch games could get. He was just considering a muting charm, when another noise entered the fray – high and keening. At first, Bill thought it was a noise-charm of some sort, perhaps a distorted whistle spell. He craned his neck to see where it was coming from. It sounded again, growing louder, and Bill realized it wasn’t coming from the stands. It was coming from behind them.

And Bill recognized that sound.

He jerked around, grabbing for his wand, drawing the attention of the professors beside him. 

“Bill, what-,”

A large shape shot up from behind the stands, its shadow passing over the professors’ box. It was large, covered in brown fur, and had huge, leathery wings. A great vampire bat. It flew straight into the Quidditch game. Bill heard screams, and his own hoarse shout, as it lunged for the players – first a Slytherin Chaser and then Ginny. They both dodged out of the way and the bat wheeled around, opening its mouth.

“Watch out!” Bill shouted, even as the bat screamed. The shockwave rippled out, sending the players careening in the air. There were more shouts and screams from the stands. Bill’s eyes darted from Ginny to Ron as they went tumbling, each managing to hang on to their broom.

Bill pointed his wand at the bat, waiting for the best moment to strike, knowing that it wouldn’t be easy. Vampire bats had magically resistant fur and skin. Only a curse that struck the face would have any impact. He saw his chance and took it.

“Segnis!”

But another curse shot out before his could connect, and the bat jerked to the side. Bill’s spell whizzed harmlessly past the bat.

“Aim for the head!” Bill shouted, but his voice was drowned out in the chaos. He could see more spells being fired at the bat, from all directions. Bill swore. No one seemed to be aiming at the creature’s head, and the players in the air were in real danger of being hit by friendly fire. But the onslaught of curses did seem to get the bat’s attention. It turned towards the stands and dove, letting out another shockwave cry.

Students screamed as they were flung to the floor. Bill could feel the vibrations, all the way in the professors’ box. He heard a few alarming cracks as the wooden stands took the brunt of the shockwave. 

The bat ducked, grasping for a couple of Ravenclaw students. A powerful firework spell exploded in front of its face, sending the bat back into the air. Bill jumped up onto a bench for a better shot at the creature, but Harry was flying towards it. Bill held his attack, not wanting to hit the boy. A few other spells shot out, their casters either not noticing the danger or not caring. The bat screeched, non-magically this time, and seemed to falter in the air, dropping straight into Harry. There were a few screams from those watching as the boy hero disappeared from view. Had he fallen? 

A few more spells were fired. The bat shook them off and dove for the stands again, revealing a terrifying sight. Harry had fallen. He was currently being held, suspended high in the air, by none other than Draco Malfoy.

There was no time for surprise. The bat was strafing the stands yet again, screaming out with its shocking force, but Bill had been expecting it. He ducked as the shockwave poured over the bleachers. Wood splintered. People screamed. Students and faculty alike were thrown to the floor. As soon as the shockwave passed over him, Bill jumped up.

“Congelo!”

His curse hit the bat’s face. Ice formed over its snout and magical stillness began settling over its body. 

It wasn’t enough. Bill knew it wouldn’t be, but it allowed another curse to hit, and then another. The bat shook and faltered. A wind charm burst out, and the bat tumbled.

Dumbledore shouted out a spell Bill didn’t recognize, but not at the bat. Bill’s eyes shot to two figures, plummeting towards the pitch, unwitting victims of the wind spell. A yellow light encompassed Harry, slowing his descent. Dumbledore cast again, but he was too late. Draco hit the grass, hard enough to bounce as he landed.

Bill’s stomach twisted at the sight. His eyes went to the sky, looking for his siblings. They were still safe. Bill pointed his wand again.

“Aim at the head!”

This time, his voice carried. More spells were directed at the bat. He watched the bat falter, watched it try to scream, but the ice around its snout wouldn’t let it. He added his own spell to the barrage, another freeze curse that hit the creature right between the eyes. The bat dropped, the wings partially hitting the rows of Hufflepuffs on the way down. It rolled into the field and lay still.

For a moment, there was silence. Bill pulled in a few ragged breaths and then, somewhere to his right, a student started sobbing. 

Noise erupted. Students called to their friends. Some called to the teachers for help. Some of the older students and the prefects began checking in on their classmates.

Dumbledore dropped an arm on Bill’s shoulder. “Make sure that it’s restrained, will you? And get the students away.”

Bill could see that some of the braver students were beginning to approach the bat, and of course, his siblings were among them.  
He picked his way through the stands, checking on a few students as he passed. There appeared to be a great deal of skinned knees and palms, and an impressive collection of bruises. One student was holding his shoulder, a probable dislocation, but nothing life threatening, at least, not in the stands. 

Bill jumped onto the pitch and strode over to the bat. It looked even larger on the ground. More and more students were gathering around it, whispering and pointing. They stepped back as Bill approached and he saw what held their attention. A large Dark Mark had been scorched into the bat’s chest. It was dark with blood and burnt flesh – a branding charm, most likely.

Bill looked from the bat to the students. Their eyes were wide, faces pale with fear, and Bill felt his heart sink. He’d thought it was safe here. He’d thought that Hogwarts was somehow invulnerable to attacks from the outside world. Apparently not. And apparently he hadn’t done his job good enough. He’d heard nothing of a Death Eater attack on Hogwarts. 

“Everyone needs to head back to the castle,” Bill instructed.

“Is it Death Eaters?” one boy asked. “Are they coming to the school?”

“Back to the castle,” Bill repeated, firmer this time. 

A whistle sounded, drawing their attention. Flitwick’s voice sounded out, magically amplified. “All students to the castle. Return to your house rooms. If you are injured, make your way to the infirmary. If you need help, stay where you are and we will come to you.”

Bill turned back to the students and raised his eyebrows. They began shuffling off just as Hagrid ran forward, a large bundle of rope slung over his shoulder. He stopped by the bat, letting out a low whistle when he saw it.

“Not seen one o’ these up here before.” Hagrid knelt by the bat, his hands running over the wings, searching for breaks. He spotted the Dark Mark in its flesh and his eyes hardened. 

“They aren’t native to Britain, are they?” Bill asked.

“They need places a lot warmer than this,” Hagrid agreed. He began measuring out the rope.

Bill stepped closer, checking if the bat appeared to be stirring, but the animal was out cold. “Need any help?” 

Hagrid shook his head. “Nah, I’ve dealt with these before. They’re lighter than you’d expect. Go check on your family.”

He jerked his head to where Ginny and Ron were waiting for him and Bill was happy to greet them, pulling them in for a tight hug. 

“You both alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Ron said, squirming away from the embrace. “Can’t believe the bloody Death Eaters attacked during our Quidditch game though.”

“Truly nothing is sacred to them,” Ginny agreed, her voice dry in a sense of humor that not many of the other Weasley’s had. Bill didn’t know if her dark humor was a product of living in a such a turbulent time, or due to her personal traumatic experiences. 

Ron gave her an unimpressed looked. “I meant it was surprising that they picked the Gryffindor-Slytherin game. You’d think they’d pick a game when their kids weren’t playing.” He jerked his head to where Draco was still on the ground. Bill could see Harry and a group of professors huddled around him.

“You guys head in,” Bill said.

They nodded and left. Bill crossed over to the group of professors just in time for Severus to pull back Draco’s trouser leg. 

“Sweet Merlin,” he muttered, because that was an impressively broken leg. 

Draco’s face went bone white and he slumped back on the ground. Pomfrey sent Severus for an immobilization potion and Minerva volunteered to stay with Draco while they waited. As much as Draco could be inscrutable at times, the dread he felt was obvious in his expression. And Minerva hadn’t bothered to hide her own impatience, which Bill thought was bad form on her part because the boy was clearly injured. 

Draco’s eyes slid over the professors and landed on him and… Bill knew that look. It was the look his younger siblings gave him when they needed help with Molly, when she was on a rant or prescribing some truly terrible consequence for a minor offense. It was a wordless plea for rescue. Bill hadn’t thought that an only child like Draco would even know how to make that face. But there was also resignation in Draco’s eyes that suggested he didn’t think any assistance was coming.

It was the resignation that had Bill stepping forward and volunteering to stay. And from the relief that crossed Draco’s face, he was pleased he had.

So Bill sat on the grass as the pitch slowly emptied and told a story about his brother Charlie breaking his legs in a Quidditch match. It was hard to tell if Draco was truly enjoying his company or simply tolerating it because there was obvious strain on his face. Pomfrey finally took pity on the kid and gave him one of the good pain potions. A dose of Gardner’s was enough to knock Bill out for a few hours, but Draco simply went limp and blinked at the sky. 

“That should have put him to sleep,” Pomfry told him, frowning a little. 

Draco blinked again, slowly. He was clearly feeling something, just not fully sedated.

“Every broken a bone before, Draco?” Bill asked. 

“A few,” Draco said, voice a little slurred. “Broke my wrist when I was learning to play Quidditch at the manor. That was the first.”

"How old were you?" 

"Six. Father was watching me, but I dodged a bludger and fell off my broom.

"Ouch," said Bill sympathetically. "Did you cry?"

"No," said Draco. His face squinted a little. "I got out of piano lessons for two weeks so it wasn't so bad." 

Bill smiled. Trust a Slytherin to find a benefit in a broken bone. 

"The first time I broke a bone was when I was nineteen,” said Bill, and shared the story about his first mission in the Sahara. “I still haven't told my mother about that one."

Draco’s lips quirked up. "Lucius told Narcissa I fell down the stairs. She thinks Quidditch is dangerous."

It was odd, hearing something so normal about the Death Eater power couple. “Mother’s have to worry,” Bill said. “It’s in their genes.”

Draco flopped an arm, like he was trying to gesture and couldn’t quite manage it. “She was worried because she had a party that night. Didn’t want any interference.”

Bill felt his mouth open, immediately wanting to dismiss what Draco was saying. Surely Narcissa had cared about her son.

“She only cares about her parties,” Draco said, voice still slurred. “She drinks a lot, you know, alcohol and potions.”

It took a second for Bill to fully comprehend what Draco had just said. Narcissa Malfoy had a substance use issue? He was shocked at the notion and alarmed at the implication. This was a kind of allegation that all professors were trained to take seriously, and yet… Bill felt discomfort steal over him. Draco was high on a pain potion right now. He was saying things he wouldn’t normally say. Was it right to hear his confession? And yet… what if he was telling the truth and this was the only time he’d admit to an unsafe home environment? 

Pomfrey seemed to have the same idea she did. She leaned in. “Draco, is it safe at your house?”

“What?” Draco’s face scrunched in confusion. 

“Safe,” Pomfrey repeated. “Are you safe at home?”

Bill could see the moment Draco realized what Pomfrey was asking. His jaw clenched and he turned away, blinking rapidly at the sky. 

“Draco,” Pomfrey repeated, but Bill put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Not now,” Bill whispered. “We’ll just upset him.”

“He just said-,”

“I know,” Bill said, but Draco wasn’t going to say anything more and pressing him further, while his leg was grossly broken, seemed like a cruel interrogation. Bill would ask him about it later. Draco would most likely deny anything, but that was okay. Bill would do more to be friendly; Draco obviously could use a confidant. 

Pomfrey humphed, but let the conversation drop. She moved around to exam Draco’s leg, making him groan and flinch. Bill couldn’t help wincing in sympathy as she deftly maneuvered his kneecap back into place with a sickening grind of bone-on-bone.

In the distance, Bill could see Snape make his way towards the pitch. Pomfrey gave Draco another potion and then hurried off to meet the potions master.

Even with the extra potion, Draco didn’t seem inclined to sleep, although his pupils blew out and he went completely limp on the ground. His eyes fluttered for a moment, and then he seemed to pull himself out of it, shaking his head and trying to sit up. 

“Are you alright?” Bill put a hand on his shoulder, both to keep him still and to reassure him that he was still there. 

Draco’s eyes drifted over to him. His brow knit and his lips moved, but he didn’t say anything. 

“Severus is coming with the potion, just a few more minutes.”

He wasn’t sure Draco quite understood him. Draco stared for a moment, and then slurred, “S is for Severus. M is for Malfoy.”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Bill agreed, laughing a little at the inane comment. “Good job spelling.”

“R is for Riddle,” Draco said, still slurring, but then he let out a breath of laughter. “R for riddle. The whole page is a riddle.”

What?

Bill automatically pulled back. “What did you say?” 

“The riddle.” Draco stared back at him, his pupils blown so wide there was only a ring of silver visible around the black. “The… the code. The code in the homework.”

Initial disbelief turned to terror. Draco’s eyes slipped shut; Bill reached for him, shaking him a little. “What did you say?” 

Draco didn’t move. Bill shook him harder and his eyes fluttered opened, dazed and confused, and then Severus was beside them with the potion.

“It’s alright,” Pomfrey said, mistaking Bill’s terror for concern for Draco. “He’s supposed to be asleep for this part. Most unpleasant.”

She poured the potion down Draco’s throat, and then the two professors whisked Draco away. Bill was left sitting on the grass and staring after them, his heart beating just as fast as when he’d battled the bat. 

Draco knew. 

Draco knew about the coded message in the homework. But… but how?

Bill was on his feet in an instant. He ran to the castle, legs pumping hard and heart in his throat. He ran straight to the professor’s wing and the records room. It was empty. No one needed records now; they were busy comforting the students and regaining control after the attack.

Bill flicked his wand, performing the unlocking spell and calling Draco’s file to hand. He sat down right on the floor to read it.

It was thin, that’s what he noticed first, and when he opened it, he saw why. Usually there were additional notes added onto the yearly report. If a student did poorly, the professor might detail what the student struggled with – was it with the practical application of a spell or did they struggle with a magical concept? Were they not practicing enough, or did they not complete homework assignments? The teachers might also leave notes if a student showed an area of excellence or showed leadership in the classroom. Professors would also note if there seemed to be a particular stressor impacting the student’s progress. Perhaps a problem with a bully was creating bad grades, or maybe a problem at home was carrying over into school. 

There were no such notes in Draco’s folder. There were a few permission slips signed, for Quidditch and trips to Hogsmeade, along with a few disciplinary notices and his Prefect’s contract, and that was it. The rest of the file was made up of his grade reports for his first five years of school. But it made sense. The professors didn’t care for Draco, and so they didn’t take the time to comment. And based on Draco’s first-year grade report, he didn’t really have any areas of strength or weakness to comment on. His first-year grades were straight E’s. As were his second year.

Bill flipped to the third-year report. All E’s again. 

Bill frowned. No one got straight E’s three years in a row. 

He turned to the fourth year. Straight E’s again. 

Bill paused, and then slowly turned to the last page, already knowing what to expect. Sure enough, all E’s on his fifth year. 

Bill closed the file and magically flicked it back to the cabinet. He stood and walked back to his room, his head heavy with thoughts. He dropped into his desk chair and stared out the window at the lake.

“No one gets straight E’s five years in a row,” he said aloud, just to test how it sounded. 

Or rather, no one got straight E’s five years in a row naturally. But there were other ways of getting grades. Cheating, for one. But with the way the professors seemed to detest Draco, they’d relish the opportunity to write him up for cheating. Bribery was another possibility. Lucius certainly had the means to pay for his son’s grades, but no teacher at Hogwarts would actually accept. And Bill could rule out grade-tampering. All the files were protected against any revision charms. 

As a code-breaker, Bill recognized a pattern when he saw one. Draco was deliberately getting E’s. It was the perfect grade to get to remain unnoticed. O’s got praise and positive attention. A’s weren’t always able to go on to the NEWTs. And anything lower than that would get negative attention in the form of study-assistance or remedial classes. E’s though… no one looked twice at an E. 

Bill tried to fathom how hard it was to get straight E’s five years in a row. And then he wondered how none of the other professors had noticed. But Draco had chosen to get E’s, meaning he was hiding his grades. It stood to reason that he was also manipulating the faculty into disliking him enough to never look into his grades, to never leave a personalized note in his folder.

Bill added that to the other information he knew about Draco. Blaise had said that Draco was a dueling champion, which took great magical skill and tactical knowledge. Bill had seen his impressive work with translating a new runic language, showing an intuitive mind and great analytical skill – and he’d slept through half of that class. Add that to the fact that he’d made the entire school believe he’d attacked Blaise, and yet none of the faculty had been able to prove it. 

Bill sat back in his chair with dawning realization. 

“The kid’s a bloody genius.”


	10. Discovered

Draco reluctantly rose to consciousness Sunday morning, the last bit of Dreamless Sleep releasing its hold on him. He lay still for a moment, assessing the way his body hurt. His leg still throbbed, but it was duller than before. The rest of his bruises ached, but were well on their way to mended. He gingerly pushed himself. His shoulder and back twinged with the motion, but offered no other complaints. Draco looked down at his leg, currently propped on cushion and splinted. His bones were properly aligned and the swelling had been reduced. While it was mottled with bruises, it appeared the bone-mending tonic was working. He let out a breath of relief. 

Pomfrey hustled over with a tray of breakfast. She propped the pillows to help him sit up and generally fussed over him while he ate. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care about the way she flitted about. He’d missed lunch and dinner yesterday, and he was hungry. She whisked his tray away when he was done and gave him another bruise-be-gone potion. 

Draco was about to ask her for a book or newspaper when he saw his visitors arrive. Crabbe and Goyle were expected. Pansy was a pleasant surprise. Nott was an unwelcome intruder. 

Nott budged his way through the group and stalked to his bed. He pulled over a chair and dropped into it, his face flushed with anger. “I saw your stunt with Potter.”

“_My_ stunt?” Draco asked. “You mean how he pulled me off my broom?”

“You seemed to be holding onto him pretty tight. It makes me think you’re trying to get into Potter’s good graces so you can play both sides.” He tsked and shook his head. “Malfoys. Always afraid of true commitment. Always looking for an exit strategy. Well, divided loyalties won’t earn you any regard from the Dark Lord. I’ve seen how he punishes traitors.”

Draco pushed himself up a little further, ignoring the spike of pain that shot through his leg. He kept his voice hushed as he spoke, as not to draw Pomfrey’s attention, but he let his anger slip through. “Your accusations are growing tiresome, Nott. Even more than that, they are bordering on offensive. You question my loyalty? May I remind you that I was the one who punished the blood traitor in this school. I defended our cause. I struck fear into those that would deny their place. What did you do? A little graffiti and then earned a detention for it. Well done, I’m sure the Dark Lord is most impressed.”

Nott bristled, but Draco continued before he could interrupt.

“Take your ego out of this. Our quarrel is not with each other. Slytherin needs to be united, now more than ever. Everyone saw how Harry Potter tore me off my broom, and yet he was given preferential treatment. Dumbledore saved him, and let me fall. The Headmaster has made his lack of regard for Pureblood families most apparent. He has shown how he prioritizes Mudbloods and Halfbloods over the noble families of Britain. If Slytherin is strong, and vocal in our justified outrage, we can unite all the Pureblood families, from every house. You must see the opportunity this has given us. Stand with me, Nott. Our cause demands our alliance.”

He watched Theodore falter. He was extending a hand rather than inflaming the war. If Nott refused, he was showing his own ambition over the Dark Lord’s cause. While Slytherin ideals would value such ambition, the Dark Lord was not so kind to those that put their own efforts over his own.

Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward. Draco knew they didn’t quite understand what he was suggesting, but they understood he was calling for loyalty. “We’re with you, Draco.”

“You always have been,” Draco acknowledged.

Pansy stepped up to his bed. “I saw the way Potter clung to you. And the way the Headmaster ignored you.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek, her lips brushing over his ear as she whispered, “You owe me.”

Draco didn’t let the wince cross his face, even though at this point he was going to be working off his debt to her for the whole year. Pansy stepped back, but the scent of her perfume lingering. It was laced with a light potion that created momentary light-headedness and euphoria. It didn’t impact Draco anymore. He turned to Nott. “Well?”

Nott jerked his head in a rough nod, clearly to prideful to admit his fealty aloud. 

“What was that?” Draco asked, wanting to see him squirm. It was only fair. Nott had been a thorn in his side for the past several weeks and the cause of countless headaches. He ought to feel discomfort.

“I’ll stand with you,” Nott ground out. He stood up. “For now, at least.” He stormed out of the infirmary. 

The others followed him, Crabbe and Goyle agreeing to bring him his schoolbooks. But homework wasn’t distracting enough. Draco found himself pushing the books away not twenty minutes later. 

“Feeling alright?” Pomfrey asked. “You look a little peaked.”

Her voice was gentle, too gentle. She was usually quite brusque. Draco had always liked that about her.

“Headache,” Draco said. 

“Would you like another pain potion?”

Draco should say no. He’d already had too many potions. The craving was back. The desire to be swept away from his worries, to clear his head and forget and have a moment of peace. It would be so easy to say yes. He could even ask her for something stronger. 

“No.” The word came out slightly too intense. 

Pomfrey’s expression softened further, into something pitying. “How about a sleeping draft then? Your body needs to heal.”

Draco nodded; he’d allow that one. She retrieved the potion and he downed it, bitter and cloying on his tongue. 

Pomfrey helped him get comfortable, a little difficult with his leg still propped up. “Take it easy now. And remember, we’re here for you if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Alarm bells went off even as the sleep potion pulled him under. Why was Pomfrey saying that? Why was she saying it like that? Why had she been so gentle with him?

He was pulled into sleep before he could answer any of those questions. His sleep was sprinkled with dreams and near-wakefulness. He woke from it groggy and sore and irritable. He reached up to scrub a hand over his face. 

“Putain de merde,” he muttered.

There was a chuckle beside him. He glanced over, startled to see Bill Weasley sitting in the chair by his bed. 

“How are you doing?” Bill asked.

There were a lot of responses to that. Irritable, that was his emotional state. In pain, his physical state. Bored and restless, his mental state. Frustrated and in danger of losing control of Slytherin house, his social state. 

Draco let out a breath. “I’m fine.” 

“That seems to be a generous response.”

“Things could always be worse,” Draco said, his own words sounding grim to his ears. He tried pushing himself up a little. Bill reached out, making Draco pause, but he only helped stack the pillows behind him. It was gentle, the way that Pomfrey had been gentle. 

Draco settled back, racking his brain for any clue as to why he was suddenly being treated so nicely. He’d fallen, he knew that much, and Bill had sat with him. Bill had talked about breaking a leg. Draco had said something about breaking his wrist. That was about all he could remember, a fairly innocuous conversation, all things considered. Bill had been kind to sit with him and offer a distraction. That was something else that would get him in trouble with Nott – accepting kindness from a Weasley. Just another way he was ‘getting soft’. 

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Bill said. 

Oh, Merlin. Had Bill seen him catch Harry too? Bill wouldn’t ream him out, the way Nott had. He would be grateful. He might even ask him about his loyalties, maybe even offer him the protection of the Order if he wanted. Draco kept his face carefully blank as Bill glanced about the infirmary, like he was making sure no one could overhear them. The room was empty, and the gesture made Draco uneasy. 

Bill dragged his gaze back to Draco. “I looked into your student file the other day.”

There was a moment – a brief millisecond – when Draco’s brain hit a blank wall. He blinked, not understanding what Bill meant, and then realization crashed over him like a tidal wave. He felt the blood rush from his face. His heart stuttered. A million implications churned in his head. He opened his mouth, but the words weren’t there. Should he feign confusion? Outright deny it? Counter with an attack?

"So, is E your favorite letter or something?" Bill asked.

Draco licked his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about.” The denial sounded flat, even to his own ears. 

Bill gave a gentle smile. “No one gets straight Es for five years in a row.”

“I’m just an E student,” Draco said, this excuse just a lame as the first. 

“An E student who is a dueling champion, shows advanced translation skills in Ancient Runes, and somehow got away with an assault under the nose of Minerva McGonagall.”

Draco cast about for the excuses he had prepared years before in the small eventuality that his grades were ever discovered. As the years went on, he’d let them go unpracticed, confidant no one would uncover his secrets. “I have talent in some areas, but I don’t apply myself.”

“It’s an anomaly.”

“Anomalies happen all the time,” Draco said. “If you flip a knut a hundred times, there is a probability it will land on heads every time.”

“I bet you know the odds on that.”

Draco did know those odds; it was a statistical impossibility. He swallowed hard. 

“How smart are you exactly?” Bill asked.

Denial hadn’t worked. He’d have to go on the defensive. 

“How long have you been spying on Death Eater meetings?” Draco shot back, sure that this would end the discussion, perhaps buy him some time to think.

“Since the begin of school,” Bill said easily. “The same time I started putting the codes up.”

Draco stared at Bill. The professor had neatly disarmed his attack using a defense Draco hadn’t seen coming: honesty.

But Bill had given Draco more than honesty. He’d also given Draco a secret, in exchange for his own. No neither could betray the other without triggering a mutually assured destruction. Draco was grudgingly impressed. 

“I’m pretty smart,” he admitted. The words felt foreign on his tongue. “Smarter than you.” 

"Doesn't take much," said Bill.

Draco snorted. “Your code has five different translation matrixes in it. You’re hardly an idiot.”

“Those five matrixes weren’t even supposed to be detected.”

“I’m good at puzzles.”

“How did you even spot it?”

“You said the homework had been translated through a spell, but the translation errors were too inconsistent. There was a rhythm to the errors, one that wasn’t natural. It felt like a code.”

“How long did it take you to decode it?”

“Weeks,” said Draco. “But once I realized that you had coded it in French, then it took me about five hours.”

“Five hours?” Bill repeated, his voice incredulous.

“I was able to look for target phrases,” Draco allowed. “That meant I could work backwards in some places, which cut down my translation time.”

“But still, _five hours_. Shit. That’s… that’s incredible.”

Draco had imagined the scenarios in which his genius was discovered. He’d played them out in his head and rehearsed what lines he’d say. Lucius would be angry that Draco had kept it a secret. Draco would have to plead for his understanding and secrecy. He’d have to convince his father that the deception hadn’t been personal, just protective. The Slytherin students would be doubtful, and even when they were convinced, they’d try testing his power. Draco would have to be on his guard, always planning for their next attack. Snape would be quiet, and that silence could mean anything. The Headmaster would be scared. Draco didn’t know what Dumbledore would do, but he was sure he’d be seen as a threat, and carefully monitored. The Dark Lord… well, he’d either see Draco as an asset or a threat. He’d be put to work or killed. 

But this scenario – someone believing him, someone praising him – that wasn’t anything he’d imagined. Or anything he’d dared to hope for. Bill sounded almost proud of him, and a strange feeling stole through his chest. It was light and warm and spread up to his face. He could feel his face flush pink. 

“Yes... well, it was enjoyable to work on.”

Bill laughed. “I guess I’ll take it as a consolation prize. So what else can you do?”

A better question would be what couldn’t he do? Draco wasn’t sure how much he wanted to reveal. Bill was still a potential enemy. And yet, Draco had just a small taste of praise and approval, and he wanted more. He wanted to impress Bill. 

“I brewed veritaserum when I was twelve, just to see if I could. I became an illegal animagus at thirteen. I could have graduated this school with all twelve OWLs in three years, four if I wanted to take the NEWTs. I’ve taken advanced mathematics and physics courses through Muggle colleges, distance learning courses, of course. I could have passed the entrance exam for a Healer’s apprenticeship last year. Last summer I passed the barrister’s exam under a pseudonym.”

Bill let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of knowledge.”

“Knowledge misapplied is worse than lack of knowledge,” Draco quoted. He felt some strange need to refute the praise even though he craved it. 

“What are you doing with your knowledge?”

Draco gave him a sidelong look. Was he asking about his genius in general or his knowledge about his spy work? He shrugged; the answer fit for both. “Nothing at the moment.”

“Apart from decoding my riddle.”

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Did you learn anything from the code?”

“Not much, but I already knew most of it. And what I didn’t know, I assumed.”

“Assumptions can be dangerous.”

“I can tell you with a ninety-four percent confidence every single witch or wizard who is a Death Eater and every single witch or wizard who is in the Order of the Phoenix."

Bill raised his eyebrows. “That’s impressive.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?” Draco asked, a little nonplussed. 

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I’m just waiting for you to decide if you’re going to tell Dumbledore or the Order. Maybe drag me in, feed me some veritaserum, and make me spill all my secrets.” 

“I could be waiting for the same from you. Except I think Voldemort would use the Cruciatus instead of veritaserum, wouldn’t he?”

Draco narrowed his eyes at Bill, but the professor was right. Both could do damage to the other. “So where does that leave us?”

“Stalemate?” Bill offered. 

Draco didn’t answer, not at first. Bill was giving in too easily. Draco was in Dumbledore’s territory, meaning Bill had the advantage. He really ought to use it. 

“You’re too noble,” Draco said. 

Bill smiled. “The principles that I am fighting for would be undermined if I decided to kidnap and interrogate a child.”

"Like I said, too noble."

"Perhaps."

Draco frowned. “How did you know that I translated the code?”

“You told me.”

“I did not.”

Bill’s smile slid into a grin. “You were a little high on potions at the time, but yes, you did.”

Draco thought back to his missing memories. He didn’t remember any of that. “I don’t suppose I said anything else?” 

“Like what?”

“Something that would make Pomfrey worried about me?”

Bill paused, which was an answer in itself. “You mentioned that your mother abuses potions.” 

“Shit.” Draco reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Everything okay at home?” 

“Based on your definition?” Draco asked. He had no doubt Bill’s definition of a good home environment was vastly different than his own. 

“Are you safe at home?” Bill clarified.

“Safer than here, apparently,” Draco said, gesturing to his leg. He changed the subject. “What about you? How dangerous is it spying on Death Eater meetings?”

Bill gave him a long look, one that said he noted Draco’s sidestep. He didn’t call him on it though. He just sat back in his chair. “Why don’t you tell me how I do it?”

“Why?”

“I want to see how smart you actually are.”

Draco was never one to back down from a challenge. He thought for a minute, the fingers in his right hand tapping through the piano exercise, 1 to 2 then 4, then 3, then 5. “Your first obstacle is getting to the meetings. You can’t use a tracking spell.” 

"Why not?" 

“Tracking spells are too noticeable and easily detected. You could use a bond, I suppose, but the Dark Lord would notice that. Not to mention he’s overseas now, so the bond wouldn’t hold for that distance. You could try a detection spell, but he’s paranoid enough to randomize his meeting locations.”

“You know a lot about Death Eater meetings.”

“I’ve been to a few,” Draco said. He saw Bill’s surprise and sneered. “Don’t look so shocked. You know who my family is.” 

“I suppose you’ve met Voldemort then.”

Draco shook his head. “My father…,” he frowned, trying to find the words to explain it best. “Lucius believes the tenants of blood purity, but he doesn’t always agree with the Dark Lord’s methods, which are typically crass or excessively violent. And the Dark Lord employs many servants who are from fallen houses or have no social standing or who are half-bloods.” 

“Are you saying that Voldemort isn’t bigoted enough for your father’s standards?” 

“The Dark Lord is a half-blood who styles himself after a noble Pureblood,” Draco pointed out. “That hypocrisy that is hard to swallow. A lot of Death Eaters say that his Slytherin blood is enough to purify the Muggle in him, but those of us from older families find that unpalatable.”

“What do you think of blood purity?”

Draco had to shrug. “I believe that blood purity matters but I don’t know how much it matters, if that makes sense.”

“You don’t know if it’s enough to kill for or start a war for.”

Draco nodded. “Until I figure that out, I’m sticking with what I was taught as a kid. Blood purity is worth more than money, but money is a close second. I have both, therefore I am above the rich and tainted, and the poor and pure."

Bill stared at him. "You really are a right arrogant snot, aren't you?" 

Draco stared back. He knew that was what people thought of him, and that was how he portrayed himself, but no one had ever called him out in such a factual way before. Usually there was a far greater emotional response that he could ignore. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Bill laughed, and Draco was surprised to note that Bill was not condemning him for his prejudiced beliefs, nor was he trying to change his mind. It was strange. Draco was used to propaganda and manipulation. He’d never had anyone let him have his own thoughts, regardless if they agreed with him or not. 

"So," said Bill, drawing the conversation back around, “if I can’t use tracking spells or detection spells, how else am I getting there?"

"The only way to get to a Death Eater meeting is to be called or to accompany someone who is called. I very much doubt that you’re side-along Apparating with a Death Eater, so that must mean you’re getting there on your own. And that means you have a Dark Mark.”

“How do I get a Dark Mark?” Bill asked.

“You certainly didn’t get it the traditional way.”

“How do you know that?”

“The Dark Mark is placed during a bonding ceremony with the Dark Lord. No disguise is going to hold during that – and there is no way you could get one without a disguise. So that leaves transferring a mark, which is supposed to be impossible.” 

"So I didn’t transfer a mark?" asked Bill.

Draco shook his head. "It's supposed to be impossible. That doesn't mean it is."

"Very true.” 

From Bill’s smile, Draco knew that was how he’d done it. “Was it from a dead Death Eater?”

Bill looked intrigued. "Not a bad idea. But Voldemort can feel when he’s lost a follower, so he’d also notice if he gained a new one.” 

"That means you transferred a mark from a live person. Not all of it, just enough to bond. That means you got it from Snape.” 

"Snape?" asked Bill in surprise. 

Draco had to hand it to him; Bill was an excellent actor.

"Snape is a spy,” Draco said, just so Bill didn’t have to deny it. 

“What makes you say that?”

“Dumbledore trusts him, and Dumbledore’s harder to fool than the Dark Lord. But he could still be a triple-agent.”

Bill raised his eyebrows in a wordless question.

Draco shrugged and settled back on his pillows. “He’s always been inscrutable, but lately he’s been more closed off.”

Bill studied him for a moment. “He worries about you.”

“What?”

“He’s worried because you don’t have anyone in your life that isn’t a Death Eater. And he’s frustrated because he’s currently under greater suspicion from Voldemort which prevents him from talking to you.”

Draco thought back to the past couple of interactions he’d had with the Potions Master. It certainly made sense, but he still wasn’t convinced. He looked at Bill. “Can I see the Mark?”

Bill pulled up his left sleeve and showed his unmarked skin. “It’s invisible.”

"The Pater's Ritual?" Draco asked. It was an ancient ritual created by a father who had transferred a curse from his son, sacrificing himself in the process. 

"With a few variations," Bill agreed. "In the potion we used moonstone instead of blood."

"To create a bond between you two instead of a complete transference of the mark," said Draco, putting the pieces together.

"Exactly. And we changed the wording too, but that's the gist of it. Dumbledore was the one who came up with the idea."

"He is a genius," said Draco. "You have an invisibility cloak to spy, don't you?"

"And what else?" asked Bill.

"Scent killing potions for Nagini, and a silencing charm for when you Apparate."

"I don't need the silencing charm."

Draco gazed at him in jealousy. "You're a silent Apparater, aren't you?" 

Each wizard or witch had a sound when they Apparated. Narcissa had a soft 'pop', Lucius entered with a snap of a whip, and Draco's sound (he Apparated illegally) was the quiet version of a crack of lightning.

"Yeah," said Bill, grinning at the obvious envy on his face.

"So you sit in on the Death Eater's meetings, and then you put the code into the homework, and then Auror Tonks relays the message to McGonagall or someone else."

Bill’s face pinched. “That’s a lot of good detective work.” He fell silent for a moment, opened his mouth, but closed it again. He frowned further, like he was trying to organize his thoughts, then finally spoke. “When you do pick a side, it’s going to be dangerous for the opposition. I’m not going to pretend that that thought of you as a Death Eater isn’t terrifying.”

Draco wondered if this was the moment Bill decided he was too dangerous. His eyes flicked to his wand on the nightstand, then at the door, and then towards Pomfrey’s office. There were a couple of ways the fight might occur. Bill had the advantage because Draco was practically immobile, so it would be better to avoid an outright battle. He turned back to Bill, ready to lie and say something that would put the professor at ease. 

Bill raised his hands. “I’m not suggesting that I’m going to cause you any harm or reveal your secret.”

Draco didn’t like how easily Bill had read him just then. He flattened his expression. “What are you suggesting?”

“Are you open to conversations about joining the Order? To be completely upfront, I think that our views on blood purity and equality are the right ones, and I’d like to have that dialogue with you.”

“Are you asking to try to recruit me?”

“You’re already being recruited by the Death Eaters. We might be able to make you a better offer. But until you’re ready to decide, we can just talk.”

“Usually people with an agenda are pushier.” 

“This has to be your decision,” Bill said. “Choosing sides is hard to do, especially for someone in your position. I don’t want to make the decision for you. That’s how spies are created.” 

“What if I chose to become a Death Eater?”

“I value the freedom choice,” Bill said. “I don’t want to take yours away from you. Plus, if you really are a genius, I think you’ll make the right decision.”

Draco ignored the grin Bill gave him. “What do you get out of it?”

“The pleasure of your company.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No, really.”

“Alright,” said Bill. “If you want me to get something out of our conversations, fail your runes test so you can stay after class on Thursday. I’ve got something you might like.” 

“What is it?” Draco asked, immediately suspicious. 

“A surprise,” Bill said. He got to his feet. “Heal up ‘til then. You look a little rough.”

He left the infirmary with an easy stride. Draco watched him leave and then sank down further into bed. He reached up to press his hands over his eyes. As much as he was a genius, it was hard to comprehend everything that had just happened. He’d been discovered, by a Weasley of all people, and…

And that was it. There had been no fight or battle. There had been no accusations or disbelief. He hadn’t been punished or scolded. He hadn’t been turned over to the Dark Lord or the Order. He slowly pulled his hands down and let out a breath. Nothing had changed, except someone knew his secret and wanted to talk. That certainly wasn’t terrible. 

He frowned. But what was the surprise?

OoOoO

Bill poked at his dinner. It was quiet in the dining hall, quieter than a typical Sunday evening. It wasn’t the quiet of students tuckered out after a weekend of fun. It wasn’t the quiet of students cramming to complete their assignments by Monday. It was a terse silence. The news of the Dark Mark on the bat had swept through the school, leaving fear and trepidation in its wake. 

Bill was a spy. It was his job to protect wizarding Britain from Death Eaters. He’d gone back through all of his notes, searching for anything he’d missed, even the smallest of hints of an attack. But there had been none. And yet, the attack had occurred, and the Death Eaters had successfully created havoc and fear in Hogwarts. So why hadn’t Bill heard anything of it? What had he missed? _How_ had he missed it?

He put his fork down as his stomach twisted. He glanced out over the hall, feeling guilty at the silence. Even the Slytherins were quiet. Draco Malfoy had the severest injuries from the attack, and his father was a high-ranking Death Eater. Bill could tell that it had shaken them, and a part of him was pleased for it. They needed to understand the real danger of following Voldemort. He would sacrifice his followers or their children without hesitation if it would be of benefit to him.

But even so, it was a hard lesson to learn, and one that children shouldn’t have to learn. Every student should be safe. And Draco himself… 

There was something else to puzzle over. It’d gone well, his talk with Draco. More than well. It’d shown Bill that Draco Malfoy was not just the ‘Ice Prince of Slytherin’ or whatever the overdramatic, teenaged label was being used. He was an adolescent who was beginning to question the beliefs he was raised with and he was possibly one of the sharpest minds in England. He’d translated his code in five hours, _five hours_, and then walked himself through Bill’s spying gig like he was solving a first-year Arithmancy problem. He’d be an asset to the Order, to be sure, but he also deserved the chance to make an informed decision about his future. Bill was hopeful. The fact that Draco was keeping his abilities secret from Voldemort, and from his own father, showed that he wanted some measure of freedom. That freedom didn’t come with a Death Eater hood or a Dark Mark. 

But Bill would have to be careful, delicate. He couldn’t push too hard. It was a daunting task, and he still had his spying activities. And his position as a professor.

Bill sighed, pushed his plate away, and took a minute to feel sorry for himself. Then he went up to Dumbledore’s office. 

As usual, Dumbledore offered a lemon drop.

“I don’t suppose you have anything stronger?” Bill asked.

Dumbledore smiled in empathy and pulled out a decanter of brandy. He poured two glasses and they moved to the armchairs by the fireplace.

“I’ve gone through everything twice,” Bill said. “I can’t find any mention of an attack in my notes. I either missed it, in which case I’m a shitty spy, or it was never mentioned at the meetings I attended, meaning my information won’t be as helpful as we wanted.”

“We knew that was the risk of using Severus’ mark,” Dumbledore said. “Different factions of Death Eaters are used for different tasks. Severus doesn’t called for every meeting, but he does get the important calls.”

“What’s the point of being a spy if I can’t prevent attacks like this one?” Bill rubbed his face and slumped back in his chair. He knew why he was spying, obviously, and he knew the work he did was important. But it was slow work. Bill knew it wasn’t a waste of time, but he just felt so useless right now.

“What’s the point of teaching if your students fail the first quiz?” Dumbledore queried. “As a teacher, you may not see improvement day-to-day. A few tests might get failed. A few concepts not understood. But little by little, the students learn. And at the end of the year, an OWL is passed, and after that you get a card in the post because one of your students went into the field because you inspired them. The same is true for the information you are gleaning. It looks like nothing now, but you will effect great change over time.”

His words were gentle. Bill let out a breath and took a long sip of the brandy. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Bill. It is unfortunate that you are in two positions where there is little instant gratification.”

Bill laughed. Wasn’t that the truth?

Dumbledore smiled as well, but then his lips pursed. He took a sip of his brandy. “Might I pick your brain about the attack?”

“Of course.”

“Do you remember when Harry fell?”

“Yes, but I admit my attention was divided.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I thought… I thought I saw young Mr. Malfoy catching him. But I can’t be sure.”

Bill kept his face neutral. “I didn’t get a good look.”

“I spoke with Minerva about it, and even had her watch my memory in a Pensieve, but she seems to think that my recollection is skewed. I admit, it happened in such a flash that I didn’t get a good look myself. She says I’m fooling myself.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

Dumbledore sighed. “I have been told that my greatest failing is that I see goodness in a person long after that goodness has been discarded. I think of Tom Riddle as a boy. I overlooked a great many things because I didn’t want to lose hope.”

“Do you think Draco is beyond hope?”

Dumbledore took another sip of brandy. “Severus often chides me for not taking more interest in the Slytherin students, particularly from the noble families. I had intended, several years ago, to begin that outreach, but there was always a distraction. I find myself… overstretched these days. It seems I either have the time to reach the students who are the victims of this war, or time to reach the students who are children of the perpetrators. I prioritize the victims. Do you think that is wrong of me?”

“No,” said Bill immediately. “But if you are aware that there is a group of students that need assistance, then it is your job to find someone who can assist.”

“Well stated,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “I had hoped the Debate Class this year might allow for conversation and discourse. I believe it is helping those students who are truly undecided, but I am afraid I might be giving those students who believe in blood purity a platform to their views, or setting them up in an echo chamber, where they only hear their own voices getting louder and louder. The incident with Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Zabini suggests that.”

“You think Draco was the one who assaulted Blaise that night.”

“You think otherwise?”

Bill thought for a moment, carefully choosing what to say. “I’ve noticed that many of the faculty seem to enjoy the opportunity to punish Draco. I do not doubt that he has broken rules or behaved offensively, I’ve seen that behavior as well. But I do wonder if the faculty hasn’t made themselves an enemy to Draco, or other Slytherins, in that case.”

“You may be the first person to speak in his defense,” Dumbledore said.

Bill felt a flare of frustration. “He’s in his _sixth year_, Headmaster. I know he can be bigoted and rude and even violent, but if I am the first person to speak in his defense and advocate treating him fairly, don’t you think that’s a problem?”

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, looking a little startled. Bill felt a little self-conscious, wondering if he’d said too much, but Dumbledore only nodded. 

“You make a fair point. This might be asking much of you, since you are already preoccupied with Order business, but since you are a new faculty member, and because I’m hearing you call him by his first name, suggesting a familiarity none of the other staff have with him, perhaps you could keep an eye on him? Maybe you could be the assistance that I have failed to provide.”

Bill smiled; he was already planning on it. “I think I can arrange something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a repost of a completed story on ff . net that is being revamped. I am adding in notes as I go, so if you've ever been interested in the editing process, you can check it out there. As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	11. Rule 8: Avoid pain medications

_Rule number eight: Avoid pain medications. If they must be used, do so in privacy._

Fail the test. 

Why would Bill ask him to fail the test?

Draco frowned and slowly hobbled his way towards the Ancient Runes classroom, the crutches feeling awkward and unwieldy under his arms. Pomfrey had released him from the infirmary this morning with a strict instruction not to put any weight on his healing leg. She wanted to ensure that the bone had time to knit properly. If Draco had been by himself, he’d just cast a levitate spell. But there weren’t many sixth years – hell, there weren’t many professors, that could continually cast that for a full day, much less a week. The crutches were an annoyance, but they came with a surprising side-benefit. Draco looked over at Darla Burgess, keeping the slow pace beside him. She was carrying his books.

Darla was a sixth year Ravenclaw with deep brown skin, honey-colored eyes, and a mess of black curls that bounced attractively about her face. She was in all the advanced classes with Draco and was one of the top students of their year, although not many people would know it. She was quiet about her intellect and rather reserved, although she, like many other girls, charmed her skirt to be several inches shorter than regulation. Draco appreciated the modification. She had lovely legs. 

She caught his gaze. He gave her grin and she ducked her head a little, hiding her own smile. 

Draco could have ordered Crabbe and Goyle to carry his books, but they didn’t share many classes. Plus, he rather enjoyed the attention from the female students. Many of the girls fawned over him, and even the quieter girls offered their assistance. Draco had accepted Darla’s offer because he wasn’t in the mood for talking. He was still trying to figure out why Bill had asked him to fail the test. 

Darla opened the Runes door and held it for him. They were late, due to Draco’s slow pace, and the other students were already seated. The tests had been distributed. Darla walked him to his seat, relinquishing his books.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

She smiled again and left for her own seat. He watched her leave, her short skit about mid-thigh, and then turned his attention to the test page on his desk. 

Fail the test, he thought again. Obviously Bill wanted to have the opportunity to talk with him. A failed test usually met remedial work with a professor, and that would give them an excuse to meet, but why? What surprise did Bill have planned? Draco just hoped it wasn’t just the opportunity for Bill to lecture him about equality and justice. He didn’t think that was the reason, but what else could it be? 

He frowned at the test. The questions seemed standard enough. He glanced up at Bill, currently seated at his desk, busy doing grading work while the students took the test. 

Of all the people to discover his secret… a bloody Weasley.

He picked up his quill and hesitated. Should he do it? Should he fail the test in order to spend more time with Bill Weasley, an Order member and a spy?

A voice that sounded like his father rang through his head. _What, on this earth, could compel you to even_ consider _this idiotic course of action?_

Draco put his quill down. It was lunacy, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if a Malfoy and a Weasley could just forget about their family feud and dueling politics and just… be friends. It was surely some rule of nature that shouldn’t be broken. Draco only had himself to blame for his predicament. He’d been far to chatty with Bill in the infirmary. He blamed the pain medications – both for slipping up in the first place and the thoughtless way he’d simply admitted that he was a genius. They’d kept him off balance, made him act like a fool.

Rule number eight: Avoid pain medications. If they must be used, do so in privacy.

But that rule didn’t help him now. He was in a mess and he needed to think his way out of it. 

He felt a stab of pain behind his eyes. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. His life, which had been complicated enough, suddenly became exponentially more complex. He was used to keeping his secret from the world, used to monitoring his every word and interactions, used to wearing his disguise. Now there was someone far too close to him. 

Draco looked down at his test. Part of him wanted to regain his usual distance with the world. He was accustomed to being alone, not just accustomed, he was comfortable in it. He wrapped himself in isolation like a blanket as he wandered the empty halls of his home. At Hogwarts, he wore it like a cloak to keep everyone at arm’s length. 

Draco put his quill to the page, ready to pass the test with flying colors, screw what Bill wanted. The idea of letting someone get close was terrifying. It was safer to be alone. 

But what was the surprise?

He pulled his quill back. He wondered, for a brief moment, if the professor had piqued his interest on purpose. Draco had an insatiable curiosity. Once a question had been posed, he felt the need to answer it. He wanted to answer this one.

Bill left his desk and started a slow circumference of the room. He stopped whenever a student had a question. He was a fair professor. He wouldn’t give the answer away, but he would give direction if the wording of the question had caused confusion.

Draco had to admit it wasn’t just the surprise he was curious about. Part of him was also curious about the professor. Why had he decided to risk his life spying on the Dark Lord? Did he believe that strongly in his convictions, or was there another reason? And were his convictions as naïve as Lucius made them out to be – all equality without merit, denying the self for the gain of others, pumping life into the weak when they should have died? 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling the pain in his head return.

“Hey,” Bill said softly. He’d rounded the corner and now stopped at his desk. He crouched and gestured at his blank test. “Anything I can help you with?”

Draco gave him a flat stare. The professor knew he didn’t need any assistance.

“You look a little pale. Do you need to go back to the infirmary?”

Draco shook his head. “No.”

“Well, if you’re not feeling well, you can take this another day. There’s no need to rush.”

Bill’s voice was gentle; his expression sympathetic. Draco knew what he was saying. Bill was giving him an out. It was simple thing, but it immediately eased the tension thrumming through his body. Bill wasn’t going to rush him; he was willing to wait. Oddly enough, that reassurance was the only thing he needed to make his decision.

Draco let out a breath. “I’m alright.”

Bill gave him a reassuring smile. “Okay.”

He stepped away and Draco put his quill to the page. Bill wanted him to fail the test? Draco could have some fun with this. 

He felt oddly drained at the end of class. He wasn’t sure what to attribute it to, either his injury or his inner turmoil. Regardless, he was grateful to head back to the Slytherin dorms. Pansy was already there, seated on the tufted leather sofa in front of the fireplace that was Draco’s unofficial spot. He settled in next to her, propping his leg up on the nearby ottoman and letting himself relax, just for a moment. But then he noticed the changes to the room. 

The Slytherin Common Room was, in Draco’s opinion, the best thing about Hogwarts. It had once been the dungeons, and as such the walls and floors were carved from dark gray stone. Ancient silver chandeliers hung from the lofty ceilings, lit with hundreds of charmed candles that cast a soft glow through the room. One side of the room was lined with ceiling high bookshelves made from black walnut wood. Matching tables were set in front of them, offering students a place to study. On the other side, large windows offered a stunning, underwater view of the Great Lake. This far below the surface, the lake glimmered with the strange aquatic magic of the Grindylows and Selkies. It cast rippling reflections onto the floor, making the stone seem to sway and drift in time with the water. The center of the room held the massive obsidian fireplace and a collection of tufted black-leather chairs and sofas. The spots closest to the fireplace were reserved for the unspoken leader of Slytherin. Draco could have claimed the seat his first year. The Malfoy family was the richest of the noble families. But Henrietta Walworth had been in her seventh year and they were as close to equal standing as a family could be. As she had seniority, Draco hadn’t challenged the position. He’d instead waited until his second year. 

Draco was used to seeing a collection of students in the chairs and sofas in the center of the room. It seemed the furniture was always being arranged in new configurations as students wanted to play games in huge groups or tell secrets to a few confidants or study with a single partner. Now the chairs were largely empty. Some had been pulled over to the bookshelves where Warrington and Nott sat with their cronies. 

On the other side of the room, along the window seats, was a smaller group of students. It appeared they’d been exiled there. Some of the decorative pillows had been charmed into large cushions and beanbags to provide more seating. Blaise was in that group. 

Slytherin had the greatest number of Death Eaters, but the house was only half Pureblood. The rest were Halfbloods and the odd Muggleborn. There was a tentative truce in the dormitory. Civility was expected. Incidences of verbal aggression were frowned upon and physical attacks deemed inappropriate. It allowed for a certain amount of mingling between blood status. But now, Warrington and Nott seemed intent on excluding those students from their ranks. They had all the members of the Pureblood Superiority group and the majority of the neutral members. The odds weren’t in Blaise’s favor, although – Draco tipped his head to the side and considered Warrington’s roster – a large number were students who wouldn’t provide him any active support. They would just keep their heads down and avoid as much of the conflict as they could. 

Pansy caught his gaze and leaned in, her hair sweeping over her shoulders to brush against his face. Her painted lips tickled his ear as she whispered, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing yet.”

“It’s not like you to be so indecisive.”

Draco felt a surge of irritation that she was questioning him. He turned his voice cold. “You think I’m being indecisive?” 

She read the threat and backed off with a disarming smile. “Forget I said anything. I guess I read your inaction as indecision. But if it’s all part of the plan…,” she trailed off with a shrug.

He watched her uncurl her legs and get up from the sofa. She made a slow round of the room, making a point to chat with students on each side. Pansy’s family was political. They weren’t particularly wealthy, but they were very well positioned in the Ministry. Pansy was being groomed to follow in their footsteps. It meant she wouldn’t have to pledge to the Dark Lord and that she was allowed to pursue connections on either side of the divide. She used it to her advantage in the school, acting as a courier or negotiator between feuding students. Draco knew that she played the role of spy for herself, hoarding the best bits of information for her private use. She had a lot of secrets on Draco; but then, he had a lot on her. And the things she had on him weren’t that terrible. Embarrassing, to be sure, but hardly dangerous.

He pulled out his books and settled in to get some work done before dinner. It was hard to concentrate, being the only student in the middle of the room. It meant he was being watched from either side. But remaining in his position of power also meant he didn’t have to outwardly declare a side, at least, not yet. That would change at the end of the year, when he’d be forced to join the Dark Lord. He might grasp at what little freedom he had now – the Neutral Party for debate class, the weird, still-developing quasi-friendship with Bill – but at the end of the year, it would all vanish. 

That dark thought plagued him for the rest of the day and into the night. When he woke the following morning, it was there to greet him, just as bleak and crushing as the day before. He released his frustration by being as much of a snot in all his classes as possible. He blamed his ill-temper on his injured leg and feigned helplessness. Either Snape was humoring him, or he had his own demons to exorcise, because he made Potter and Granger fetch all his ingredients for his Dreamless- Sleep potion and even stir his cauldron. 

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before yanking me off my broom,” he sniped at Potter, not able to keep the vicious pleasure off his face. 

Harry had been staring at him for the past few days, his brow furrowed, no doubt still questioning if Draco had deliberately saved his life or not. But by the end of potions class, after suffering through all of the worst comments Draco could think of, any lasting curiosity had faded behind glaring eyes and red-faced anger. Draco smirked and felt his own poor mood drift away.

He was back to his usual self on Thursday, although anticipation curled in his stomach and stole his appetite. Ancient Runes was the last class of the day. While typically he enjoyed Bill’s teaching, he itched to get through the class, wondering at the surprise he’d promised. 

Bill passed the tests out at the end of class. Draco wasn’t surprised by the red T that marked his page, nor by Bill’s casual comment of, “Stick around after class for a few, alright?”

Draco nodded and slumped in his chair, playing the role of frustrated student. Hermione hid a giggle behind her hand and hurriedly packed up her things, no doubt eager to inform the other two-thirds of the Golden Trio that Draco Malfoy had failed a test with a T. In actuality, all of the correct answers were on the test. He’d just answered in reverse, so that none of the translations aligned with the correct dialect. 

He glanced up at Bill, who was lounging at his desk, occasionally glancing at the clock as the rest of the students filed out. It was the last class of the day and it seemed the students were taking their time comparing test grades with each other. Draco drummed his fingers on the desk, impatient and agitated. The students finally trickled out of the classroom and the door swung shut behind them. 

Bill waited a moment and then grinned. “I got you something. Come up here.”

Draco slowly got to his feet and crossed to the front of the room. Bill handed him a gift wrapped in blue paper.

Draco stared at it. “Is there a holiday I’m unaware of?” It was clearly a book; it was the weight and shape of a book. He wondered why Bill had even bothered to wrap it. And was this the surprise Bill had planned? Just a book wrapped in cheap paper? He looked up at Bill. “What is it?”

“You’re supposed to open it to find out.” 

Draco turned it over in his hands, feeling suddenly awkward. How should he open it? At home, all the wrapping was done in the shops and would come off at the tug of a ribbon. It was a safe way to unwrap a gift. No need to look too eager, just politely interested. Displays of overt excitement were frowned up. There was no such ribbon here. Was he supposed to tear the paper?

He settled for sliding his finger under the spell-o-tape and pulling the paper away as neatly as possible. It was, as expected, a book. The cover was soft, brown leather with tiny gold runes along the edges in four different dialects. They read _'Language is the means by which we live, love, and learn.'_ In the middle of the cover was a small imprinted dragon. Draco ran his fingers over the script and then flipped it open. Inside was an index of the six major ancient runes and their alphabetical code along with the basic grammar rules. There was a section of transfer paper to allow tracings of original scripts and the rest was comprised of blank pages, faintly lined in gold, for writing. It was a translator's journal.

Draco looked up to see Bill studying him with an unreadable expression on his face. He realized that the polite thing to do would be to thank him for the journal.

"I, uh," he said, casting around for the words.

Bill interrupted before he could make a complete arse of himself. "I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted you to fail your test, and why I gave you that.” He gestured at the book. “As of now, you’re taking extra sessions after class on Thursdays because your summer class didn't cover all of the necessary dialects, which is why you failed the test."

“Is that so,” said Draco, having no idea where Bill was going with this instruction. 

“That’s the official story, at least. But I thought it would give us the time to work on a little project of mine.”

“Which is?” 

Bill got up and pulled out a rolling blackboard from the corner of the room. He flipped it over, revealing a set of runes that Draco hadn’t seen before. “This.”

Draco stepped closer, scanning over the glyphs. He didn’t recognize them. “Untranslated?” 

"Untranslated.”

"When were they discovered?"

"Three years ago."

"That recently?" 

“I found them myself while on a gig in Egypt. I copied them over, planning on taking a crack at them, but I haven't been able to give it as much attention as I’d like.” 

Draco quirked an eyebrow at him. "And now that you're a teacher and a spy you expect the free hours to roll on in?" 

Bill raised an eyebrow right back. “Well, I’ve got this genius kid in one of my classes. He’s a bit of a prat at times, but I was hoping he might be interested in lending a hand.” 

Draco was silent for a minute, thinking it over. The thought of translating a completely new set of ancient runes was thrilling, and already he could think of four different algorithms he wanted to throw at the glyphs to see if it would provide a clue in the translations, but it would mean working with Bill. Working closely with Bill. The professor had already admitted that he wanted to recruit Draco for the Order, and Draco already found him annoyingly good company. He should say no. He didn’t need anything else to make his choice at the end of the year any harder. And yet, the refusal stuck in his throat. Merlin help him, but he wanted this. 

"Does it count as extra credit?" he asked finally.

Bill broke into a grin, obviously relieved that Draco had said 'yes' and Draco felt strangely pleased that Bill had cared that much.

"Do you really need extra credit?" Bill countered.

"No," said Draco shrugging. "But I had to see if I could get something out of it."

"Ever the Slytherin, huh?" asked Bill, and it was evident that he didn't mean it as an insult. Draco felt his lips twitch up in response to Bill's smile, and he immediately turned back to the runes, hoping that Bill didn't catch the slip.

"Do you have a basis of translation?" 

"Yeah.” Bill pulled a notebook out of his desk and tossed it to him. 

Draco caught it and flipped open to the first page. He skimmed the contents, flipped a few pages, and then realized what Bill was suggesting. He blinked at the page and then at Bill. "Are you serious?" He sat down on the nearest desk and hurriedly flipped through the next few pages. He looked back up at Bill. "Do you know what you’re proposing?"

Bill smiled at the look of incredulity that must be on his face. "How about you tell me.”

"You think that this set of runes is a key to deciphering the eleven Persian runes. It would be the largest translation of the decade.” 

"Of the century," Bill corrected. "So I take it you're interested?"

"Does Snape hate Potter?" Draco asked, still flipping through the book. 

Bill snorted. 

Draco stopped at a section about halfway through and frowned. “What dialect is this one? It seems important to your translation, but I don’t know it.”

Bill crossed over to join him. “Ah, that’s a really obscure set of Slavic runes.”

Draco squinted at it. “Are you sure? The characters look too square to be Slavic.”

“Who’s the professional here?” Bill asked, feigning insult. He jumped up and crossed over to the chalkboard. He flipped it over to the blank side. “So, think of these runes as the predecessor to the ones you know, but with a great deal of Prussian influence.”

Draco put the notebook down and spent the next two hours learning the most absurd style of cuneiform he’d ever seen. But Bill had a knack for teaching. He started from a wide perspective, focusing on the formation and influence of the runes, and then went into the more specific laws of the language. He ended with the details, explaining the exceptions to the rules and common phrases. By the end of the lesson, Draco had a good grasp of the language, but he’d need to study it a little more. 

Bill pushed the notebook over. “Here, read up on it, and we’ll pick up next week, same time.” 

“Okay.” 

In fact, it was more than okay. Bill was offering a project, a genuine piece of academia, something actually meaningful to do with his intellect. And if he was right and this was the key to the Persian runes, then he was offering the chance at scholastic renown, even if he never put his name on it. In short, Bill was offering something valuable. And for what? For Draco’s help, certainly, but he’d also be putting a lot of work into Draco to catch him up to speed. That all evened out in the end. What else was he getting out of this interaction with Draco?

The answer was nothing. It wasn’t a fair exchange. It seemed that Bill wanted to be… friends, of a sort, with Draco, and was familiar enough with the concept to know that Bill was short-changing himself. 

“Hey, you alright?” Bill asked.

Draco belatedly realized he was glaring at the notebook Bill had handed him. He nodded once, jerky and abrupt, and then, before he could think twice about it, blurted out, “The Death Eater attack during the Quidditch game wasn’t a sanctioned attack.”

He looked up to see Bill’s face go through a myriad of emotions. It would have been comical, had Draco not been so preoccupied with identifying them. Surprise and confusion. A few others he couldn’t name. 

Bill’s face settled into gentleness, an expression Draco was getting used to seeing on him. His voice was equally gentle. “Before you tell me anything else, understand that if you give me actionable intel, I will follow up on it. So, take a moment and think if you really want to tell me something.”

Draco felt his own confusion. His brow knit; his fingers sped through their 1 to 2-4-3-5- pattern. 

Bill continued. “It’s not that I don’t want the information you have. I just don’t want you to feel pressure into telling me anything. This,” he gestured at the board, “isn’t my way of bribing you for dirt on the Death Eaters. And it isn’t to make you feel guilty or obligated. If you share information with me, I want it to be your choice. Do you understand?”

Draco didn’t, not fully. “Theoretically, yes. Practically, no.” He shrugged. “Favors for favors are a pretty well-established guideline for forming alliances in old Pureblood society.”

“Our work together isn’t a favor. It’s just for fun. Free of charge.”

It didn’t feel free, because Draco had never encountered anything truly free before. But he was aware that there were some people who gave without expecting a return. _Fools and dreamers_, Lucius said. Bill wasn’t a fool, but he very well could be a dreamer. 

“Consider this free then,” Draco said, still feeling obligated to give something back. “It’s a deduction I’m making, not an actual piece of information, but I think it holds merit. The Death Eater attack on Hogwarts was not a sanctioned assault. In fact, I don’t think many Death Eaters were aware of it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The obvious fact that Slytherin was playing. There were four children of Death Eaters in the air during that game. They wouldn’t have approved it, or rather, they would have picked a different game.” 

“Are there many Death Eater attacks without the Dark Lord’s knowledge?”

“The attack during the Quidditch World Cup comes to mind. That was a revel by Death Eaters for the sake of gaining attention. I think this is similar. Someone wants the Dark Lord’s attention.”  
Bill looked thoughtful. “It’s a good theory. One that I hadn’t considered.”

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that the Dark Lord is omniscient. He is powerful, yes, but many of his followers are ambitious in their own right. They will take actions to suit themselves, sometimes to his detriment. It would…,” Draco paused for a moment, wondering how much he should reveal, but then he inwardly shrugged. Bill would figure it out for himself eventually. “It would be a good idea to notice who gets in his good graces and who falls from them. You may not always know why, but the who is equally important.”

“I will,” said Bill. “Thank you.”

Draco nodded, a little uncomfortable at the gratitude. “Well, I’ll see you later. And I’ll learn this for next week.” He held the notebook up.

“There’s no rush,” Bill said.

Draco slipped the book into his bag and grabbed his crutches. “I’m a genius, Bill.” He gave him a smirk. “I won’t have to rush.” He swung out of the room, leaving Bill gaping after him.

OoOoO

Bill watched Draco swing out of the room, his mouth hanging open. He wasn’t serious, was he? There was no way Draco could learn an entire runic language in a week. But then he remembered their conversation in the infirmary, and the list of feats he’d already accomplished. Suddenly it didn’t seem so impossible. 

“Well… shit,” Bill announced to the empty classroom. 

He packed up his room for the evening, stacking his translations’ work back in the desk drawer. He was excited to finally work on it again. Curse-breaking didn’t leave a lot of free time, and if he were being honest, he’d gotten a bit stuck in places. It was time to call in a partner, but he didn’t have any contacts that he trusted in the translating community. Bill had tried working with translators before, but many times his contributions had been waved off or his ideas co-opted. That’s why he’d kept these runes to himself. But now… now Bill had fresh hope, even though he’d never expected to find a translating partner at Hogwarts. Much less a student. Much, much less a Malfoy. 

Bill finished putting his things away and sank back in his chair for a moment. Draco had given him a good piece of information today, one that Bill appreciated. He wondered what other pieces of information Draco knew just by being the son of Lucius Malfoy. He had an insider’s view of the Death Eaters. As tempting as it was to want to push Draco for more information, he knew that patience was key. Draco had to make his own decision. And if today was any indicator, Draco appeared to be… well, reachable. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected him to be far more entrenched in his family’s prejudices. 

But Draco seemed almost starved for positive attention. He remembered Draco’s expression when he’d presented him with the translating journal. It was like he’d never received a gift outside of a holiday before, even though his parents could buy him all of London. And he remembered Draco’s surprise when he’d told him the runes weren’t a bribe for information on the Death Eaters. 

Bill knew how high Pureblood society worked. The Weasley’s were poor, but they were an old family. They still had interactions with the wealthier families, were still invited to certain society events. After Bill got his job, and after he established a decent living for himself, he’d been invited to more events. He went, on occasion. He watched and observed and realized that the entire society was built on favors. It was a system of debtors and debt-collectors and Bill despised it. Draco had expected that system with him. Bill was going to show him something different. 

Mind made up, he headed back towards his office to drop off his things before dinner. He’d just unpacked his bag when pain flared up on his arm. Voldemort was calling. 

Bill swore. With feeling. He’d had enough of Death Eaters for the week. But he still threw on his invisibility cloak and took his concealment potions and met Snape in the woods. They Apparated to a house Bill hadn’t seen before. It was to be expected but frustrating none-the-less. The Death Eaters often changed locations of their meetings for secrecy and privacy. It made Bill’s job more difficult. He had a new layout to learn, new hideaways to find. It increased the chances of someone accidentally bumping into him. 

He cautiously moved through the house, trying to find an out-of-the-way location that would let him overhear the most important information. He settled on crawling half behind, half-under a chaise lounge in the parlor where the Death Eaters were gathering. It was the first meeting since the attack on Hogwarts. Bill had expected the Death Eaters to be celebrating a successful attack at Hogwarts or bragging about their prowess. There was some celebration, but no bragging. It lent credibility to Draco’s hypothesis, that the attack was by a rogue faction of Death Eaters. 

This meeting was smaller than usual. There were no recruits outside practicing their dark spells. There were no spouses or relations mingling about. The mood was somber and focused. The members were taking turns speaking, updating the group on certain funding measures or the newest recruiting numbers. It appeared to be strategy session. Bill committed everything he could to memory, especially the suggestions that were thrown out for more dark revels. It was in the middle of this that Voldemort himself appeared. He strode into the room and conversation halted. The members stood and bowed. 

“Milord,” Severus said. “I was hoping I might have a word?”

Voldemort’s gaze locked onto the Potions Master and something in the red eyes seemed to ignite. His lips stretched over sharp teeth. “But of course.” He stretched out his arm. His long fingers uncurled in the direction of a side room, indicating the professor should join him there. His manner was overly polite; his expression was cruel glee. 

Bill’s skin crawled. He immediately knew that Severus was in trouble, but the Potions Master didn’t show any trepidation. He followed the Dark Lord into the study. The door shut. 

The Death Eaters reclaimed their seats and resumed their conversation. It was only a matter of minutes before the screaming started. 

Bill had the childish urge to cover his ears. The Death Eaters paused. They exchanged glances with each other, and Bill could read a variety of expressions – pity, unease, fear, relief. Only Lucius Malfoy was inscrutable. That wasn’t to say he was expressionless. His lips were slightly pursed and one manicured finger tapped at the head of his cane. He looked impatient, almost annoyed. Bill couldn’t tell if he was truly stoic in the face of the torture or if it was a well-practiced affectation. 

The screaming stopped. Bill let out a slow breath and tried to focus on what was being said. MacNair was talking about a trade route or something to that effect. He’d clearly lost his train of thought when Snape had started screaming. Bellatrix Lestrange – the only one looking entertained at the sound of screaming – tore the notes from his hand. She read them aloud, skipping through the passages she found boring or unimportant. The resulting presentation was disjointed and incomprehensible. No one asked her to stop. 

The screaming started again. A few Death Eaters squirmed in their seats. Some looked a little pale, like they were afraid they might be the next target. Bellatrix kept reading. 

Lucius Malfoy let out a testy sigh and flicked his wand, gathering up the pages that Bellatrix was discarding on the floor when she’d finished with them. He made no move to interrupt her poor recitation of the facts and figures in the report. He simply straightened the partially crumpled pages and set them in order. Then he started reading, silently. He read quickly, his eyes only seeming to skim the page before moving to the next. Bellatrix finished her read-aloud. Lucius finished his silent study and then handed the pages back to MacNair.

“Do we know what customs points are friendly?” he asked.

MacNair pulled out a map and began explaining the best travel routes. Lucius asked a barrage of questions about tracking packages and what shipping businesses offered the best security. After Lucius interrogated MacNair, he turned to Boucher and asked about their progress in firing a High Court judge that was giving them trouble. And after he’d raked Boucher over the coals, he quizzed Nott about the tax cuts he was supposed to be pushing through the British Ministry.

It was clear Lucius had a sharp mind, but he wore his intelligence differently than Draco. Lucius wielded his intellect like a weapon. He used it to cut down those around him and elevate his own position. He used it to prove his superiority. Bill couldn’t detect any glimmer of curiosity about him, not at all like his son. Draco was eager to learn. He was excited at the prospect of puzzles to solve and codes to decipher. 

Bill suddenly realized that he never outright asked Draco if his father knew about his genius. It was heavily implied that he didn’t know, but now Bill wasn’t so sure. Lucius was highly perceptive, and his recall was terrifyingly accurate. How could he not realize that his son was a genius? Surely Draco couldn’t hide for that long. 

The screaming started again. Bill swallowed hard. He was sure Voldemort was using the Cruciatus Curse on Severus. How much more could he take?

Lucius stood. “If no one has anything further to add, I’ll inform our lord of these updates.”

“Don’t interrupt him when he’s having fun, Lucius,” Bellatrix scolded.

“Our lord understands that work must come before pleasure.” Lucius’ tone was light, and as he walked over to the study door, his gait was even, measured. Bill followed because no other Death Eater was getting up. In fact, they seemed frozen in their seats. Some were watching in dread; others seemed to have a faint light in their eyes, as if they were hoping Lucius would also be tortured. 

Lucius raised a hand to knock and held that position. Bill wondered if the hesitation was out of fear or if he was simply waiting for Voldemort to finish the Cruciatus. The screaming abated, slower this time, and Bill could hear ragged breathing through the door. 

Lucius rapped twice on the door and then partially opened it. “If I may be so bold as to interrupt, milord?”

Bill couldn’t see Voldemort from this angle, but he could hear the voice, “Only you would be so bold.”

Lucius opened the door fully and stepped into the room. Bill paused, not knowing if he had the chance to follow before the door shut, but Lucius left the door open. Bill slipped inside. 

The room was a small study, lined with bookshelves and simply furnished. There was a wheeled cart with a beverage service beside the fireplace. Lucius crossed to it, not sparing a glance at Severus, currently on the floor. Bill moved further into the room. There was a statue in one of the corners, one of the inert kinds, so he wedged himself behind it. 

“We’ve decided to move ahead with the smuggling route through Calais.” Lucius picked up a decanter, lifted the stopper, and gave the drink inside a cursory sniff. He wrinkled his nose and put it back down. He reached for the bottle beside it. “It will be vastly more feasible once Nott gets the tax cuts pushed through in the Ministry. We’ll need liquid assets for this endeavor.” He sniffed this option, a golden-colored whiskey, and seemed to find it more palatable. He poured two fingers in a glass and turned to Voldemort. “I can walk you through the funding if you’d like. Perhaps over a glass of whiskey? This appears to be a rather fine vintage.” He proffered the glass.

Voldemort took a moment to respond, his chest heaving slightly. Bill knew it wasn’t exertion. He’d learned enough of Voldemort’s stamina to know that a few minutes of the Cruciatus Curse wouldn’t tax him. His agitation was pent up anger. He was never out of anger. 

“No.” Voldemort’s voice was cold. The red eyes flicked to Severus who was, quite wisely, remaining motionless on the floor. Severus had been one outlet for him tonight. Bill watched as Voldemort’s gaze turned to Lucius, still holding the glass out to him. For one moment, Bill thought Voldemort was going to crucio Lucius. The Malfoy patriarch didn’t seem frightened. He simply raised an eyebrow in wordless question. 

“You handle it,” Voldemort said, and then he strode from the room, malevolent energy rolling off of him in waves. He confronted the other Death Eaters, his voice carrying into the study, half-hissed and enraged. Some of the Death Eaters try to respond. Their attempts were cut short with screams.

Lucius waved his wand twice. One spell shut the door, the other muffled the screams. Lucius stepped forward and placed the tumbler of whiskey on the coffee table in front of Severus. He made no move to help the Potions Master up, just watched as he hoisted himself up and drop into the nearest armchair. Severus sucked in a breath, reached for the whiskey, and tossed it back. 

“Another?”

“No.” Severus shifted and winced. “Yes.”

Lucius took his glass and poured more. He handed it back and then poured himself a glass. He settled into the chair across from Snape and took a small sip. “What did you say?”

“I inquired about the attack at Hogwarts.”

Lucius snorted. “You did not. You never _inquire_ when it comes to Hogwarts. You insinuate that you should be in charge of those matters and get peeved when you’re passed over. You forget that our lord has very good reasons not to trust you. Your loyalties have always been divided.”

Severus gave him an unimpressed look. “This coming from the man whose true loyalty is to himself.”

“I’m not the one suffering the Cruciatus shakes.” Lucius gestured with his glass at the Potions Masters trembling hands. 

Severus didn’t respond. He took a healthy swallow of the whiskey. 

“Well?” Lucius prodded.

“He didn’t say who was behind the attack. He just said that he has agents who are better prepared to deal with Hogwarts than I am.”

“Who do you suspect?”

“I’m not sure. He didn’t even say if his agent was in Hogwarts or not.”

“You used the plural before,” Lucius pointed out. “Which did he use? Agent or agents?”

Severus paused a moment. “Agents, plural. But I am unclear if he was using the term in a specific sense or general.” 

Lucius gave a thoughtful hum, his eyes narrowed. “We certainly don’t need multiple unknown agents running about Hogwarts. Particularly if they seem intent on using blunt force tactics.”

“Especially if Slytherin students are being harmed.”

Lucius’ eyes flicked over to Severus. “Don’t pretend your only concern is Slytherin. If you had your way, all of Hogwarts would be off limits.”

“And you disagree?”

“A war cannot be bloodless. If the situation demanded, I would target Hogwarts.”

“Just not while Draco is there.” 

“Certainly not.” Lucius’ voice was sharp. He took a larger swallow of whiskey and then contemplated the glass, turning it around in his hand. “I trust you’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“It’s been difficult with recent developments.”

“The bugs in your office.” Lucius nodded. “Still nothing more?”

Severus shrugged helplessly. “The Dark Lord isn’t giving me any actionable information, but neither is the Headmaster. I’m not entirely sure who placed them, although I suspect Stevick, and I am not sure who he is working for, the Dark Lord, the Ministry, or Dumbledore.”

“A challenging position.”

“I will weather this storm like I’ve weathered the others. But you might a receive a more expedient response if you write Draco and inquire after his wellbeing yourself.” 

Lucius brushed the suggestion away. “The owls are at risk of interception. It’s not safe.”

“You’ve written him before.”

“When the matter is pressing, yes.”

“I’d think a severely broken leg qualifies.” 

“You said his leg was healing.” There was something accusatory in Lucius’ voice now.

“And it is, but he was still involved in a traumatic accident. He was flung from his broom during an attack on himself and his classmates.” 

“He will understand that he was not a target.”

“That hardly helps.”

Lucius gave Severus a dark look. “He’s a Malfoy. I will not coddle him.”

“How do you equate writing a letter to coddling?” 

Severus’ question was Bill’s as well. How could a man as smart as Lucius arrive at such a false comparison?

Lucius’ expression turned dark. His voice dropped low. “I will raise my son in the manner I deem best. As he has met every expectation that I have set for him, I conclude that my methods, although apparently controversial to you, are quite satisfactory. And Draco himself has voiced no complaints. I will thank you to remember your place, Severus.”

He drained the rest of his whiskey and set the empty glass down. He stood, taking a moment to straighten his robes, and then he strode from the room. Bill followed, glancing back at Severus, who seemed content with staying put for the time being and nursing his drink. 

Voldemort was no longer on the premises, but he had left a wake of destruction. A few Death Eaters were half-collapsed on the sofas, looking pale and unsteady. More victims of the Cruciatus. Bill wondered what Voldemort’s excuse was for torturing his followers, and why they continued to be his followers. 

Lucius concluded the meeting, wrapping up the stray details and handing out orders to be completed by the next meeting. This must be why Lucius hadn’t discovered Draco’s genius. He’d missed all the signs because he’d been too wrapped up in business and politics and gaining power for a madman. 

Bill watched Lucius and confirmed what he had already suspected. Lucius was smart, cold, and callous. He suffered no fools and had no patience for mistakes or excuses. He was ruthless, but Bill had known that when he’d heard how Lucius had planted the cursed diary in Ginny’s bag her first year. A diary that now Dumbledore believed had actually been a horcrux. His little sister, an eleven-year-old girl, had been possessed by the soul of Tom Riddle all because Lucius’s pride had been hurt. 

Bill looked at Lucius Malfoy and knew him for what he was. A villain. 

And if he could do what he did to Ginny, Bill wondered what he might do, and what he might have already done, to his own son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a late update because Lucius Malfoy is difficult. Please leave a review if you enjoyed the chapter!


	12. Rule 9: Patience always pays off

Rule #9: Patience always pays off.

There was a new code in the homework that Bill handed out on Tuesday. Draco started translating it as he walked back to the Slytherin dorm, trusting that his feet knew the way and that the other students would stay out of his path. He was correct on both counts. He walked straight to his room and sat at his desk, fingers reaching for his quill to jot down the message as he decoded it. There was a lot of information here – updates on the Death Eaters’ finances, plans for a smuggling ring through France, their agenda in the French Ministry. If this intel was handled correctly, Bill could do a lot of damage to the Death Eaters. Draco was impressed. And then, a second later, concerned.

He sat back his chair and absently rubbed at his knee. He was off the crutches finally, but his leg still ached. Draco knew that the Dark Lord was looking to consolidate his power overseas. The Death Eaters were well-known in Britain, too well-known. Much of the wizarding world still bore the scars from the first magical war and the population was sick of fighting. But Pureblood sentiment was strong in other areas of the world, and those sentiments had been invigorated by the unrest in Britain. Many Pureblood families in Europe had been inspired to take action themselves, grabbing more power from the government and passing anti-Muggleborn policies. If Voldemort was able to gain their support, he could return to Britain with an army. 

Draco pushed the homework away. He didn’t want to think about it.

There was yet another code in the homework on Thursday. Draco puzzled over the page as the rest of the students packed up their things and left the room. Bill shut the door behind them and began pulling out their translation work. Draco heard the rolling chalkboard being pushed into place and then Bill came over to see what he was looking at.

“Are you translating that in your _head_?” Bill demanded, incredulous. 

“Mm,” Draco said, not wanting to lose his train of thought.

“That’s… both impressive and intimidating.”

Draco frowned at the page. “_Nagini is one_?” He looked up at Bill, wondering if he’d make a mistake in his translation. “What does that mean?”

Bill shook his head. “We’re not here to discuss that. Come on, up to the board. Show me if you really learned the Slavic runes in a week.”

Draco wanted to push a little farther, but there had been two other lines in the homework page. ‘_Revel in Calais. Eight more joined._’

That meant Bill had spent the previous night spying on a dark revel and, now that he had that piece of information, he was a little disturbed. Not because Bill looked rough, but rather, because he didn’t. There were no dark circles under his face, no pallor, no tension. Dark revels ran late – sometimes all the way to dawn. Bill should look tired. He must be using potions to disguise his appearance. He probably took some energy potions as well. Draco followed Bill up the board, replaying the class in his head. Bill hadn’t yawned or stretched or gotten up to move about the room. He usually did. This was the last class of the day; fatigue was normal. Bill was overcompensating with his disguise. That meant he was exhausted. 

“Alright,” said Bill with his usual smile, no sign of strain. He tossed him the chalk. “Show me what you got.”

Draco turned to the board. Bill had two exercises written out, one was to translate a passage written in the Slavic runes, and the other was an English passage to translate into the runes. Draco scanned them over, then stepped forward and began writing. For a few moments, there was only the sound of his chalk passing over the board. Draco glanced back. Bill was perched on his desk, watching his progress with a critical eye. Draco wondered if he should say something. Maybe inquire as to his wellbeing. Was that allowed? Or was it too presumptuous? 

Draco finished the first translation and moved onto the next.

“Watch your form on the glyphs,” Bill cautioned. “You’re making them too uniform.”

Draco half-turned. He’d never heard that critique before. “The glyphs need to have some regularity.”

“Too much regularity and we begin making them our own, changing what they are, and that can lead to translation errors. First rule of translating – no matter how ugly or irregular, we keep the glyphs as they are written.”

Draco erased his work and re-started. “The other part of the message,” he hedged, not daring to turn around.

“We’re not going to talk about it.”

Bill’s voice wasn’t harsh, but Draco still felt oddly chastised. He finished the translation and Bill stepped up to survey his work. 

“Damn.” Bill laughed and shook his head. “That’s a NEWT-level translation exercise on a runic language that you just picked up last week.” 

Draco felt a surge of pride. He tried to push it down. 

Bill picked up the chalk and made a few minor corrections. “Just need to watch the past tense; it can get a little tricky. Overall, though, I guess we can skip to the next step. What do you know about family matrixes?”

A family matrix was often the first step to decoding a new runic language. Translators would try to pinpoint the timeframe and geographic location of the runes, and then look for any runes that came before or after the target language, the ‘parent’ or ‘child’ of the runes. 

“Do you ascribe to the British or German way of creating a matrix?” Draco asked.

Bill grinned. “Any translator worth his salt will do both and spit the difference.” 

They worked on the floor, creating a spiderweb of networking runes around Bill’s discovered language. They argued a little bit over the placement of some of the runes. Wizarding history was, at times, quite vague. Historians and researchers could guess at their time of development, but there was a wide margin of error, sometimes as much as a century on either side. 

It took them over an hour to stop arguing over placements. When they finished, and stepped back, Draco could see another three languages he’d have to learn. Not impossible by any means, but another delay. He looked over at Bill, wondering what he was thinking. The professor was frowning at the piles, arms crossed over his chest. He yawned, suddenly and violently, and then blinked in surprise, as if he’d startled himself. 

Draco didn’t laugh, even though his expression was comical. “Invigoration draught wore off then?”

“How did you-,”

“You attended a dark revel last night which meant you probably didn’t get any sleep, but you haven’t yawned or stretched all class. Invigoration draughts last eight to ten hours, so if you took one in the morning, it would be wearing off about now. If you took any appearance-improving potions, which I imagine you did, you’ve got a few more hours left on those.” 

Bill looked away. “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

“I miss plenty,” Draco said. Like right now, for instance. There was something in Bill’s voice, a note of something grave and serious, but he couldn’t define it. Was it anger? Irritation? Grief? Draco mentally cursed himself. He shouldn’t have said anything.

“The revel was…,” Bill trailed off and started again. “It’s hard to understand – that is, it’s hard for me to understand – no, it’s just straight up hard to understand how anyone could be that...” He stopped himself from saying anything more, but the note in his voice hardened into condemnation. He seemed to notice it and winced. “I’m not trying to offend you.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it.”

Bill nodded. “Now that we’ve got the British matrix, shall we re-organize for the German?”

Draco was more than willing to change topics. They began switching the runes, working in an awkward silence. Draco was used to awkward. Family dinners when Lucius and Narcissa were home were uncomfortable enough to turn his stomach, make the food stick in his mouth and settle heavy in his stomach. This was worse because Draco felt a strange sort of guilt. It grew every time Bill yawned or stretched, the sleepless night now weighing on him.

“I’ve never been,” Draco blurted out after Bill spent a moment rubbing his eyes. “To a dark revel, that is. I mean, I was there at the Quidditch World Cup, but I was just in my tent. And that wasn’t a real revel; it was more of …an impromptu rally. Some of the other Slytherin students attend revels, but my father-,” he bit the last off, not wondering if he should say anymore.

“Your father doesn’t let you attend,” Bill finished for him. “I heard him tell Nott something similar.”

Draco was momentarily startled. He knew that Bill was spying on the Death Eater meetings, and he knew that his father had been referenced in the coded messages before, but Bill was talking about a private conversation. He was close enough to Lucius to overhear personal details. Draco felt a well of questions rise up. What else had he heard? Was Lucius alright? How often did his father talk about him?

But Draco couldn’t exactly ask that. He tried a neutral question instead, something light and innocuous. “How often do you see him?”

“He’s at every meeting I attend.” 

Draco hid a wince. Merlin, what a stupid question to ask. 

Silence hung between them, heavy and stifling. Draco glanced at Bill as they finished the matrix. His face was inscrutable, but sometimes he looked at Draco, like he was stopping himself from saying something as well. 

Merde, this was ridiculous. A Malfoy and a Weasley, working together while one spied on the other side, and the other kept it secret. Draco wondered what Bill had stopped himself from saying. He wondered what word he would use to describe the Death Eaters. Cruel? Evil? Immoral? Draco didn’t want to hear those words. Bill had seemed reluctant to say them at least, which was immeasurably kind of him. 

They finished the matrix. Draco didn’t bother to review it with Bill. “It’s getting late. I have to go.”

Bill seemed disappointed, but not terribly surprised. “We’ll pick up next week.”

Draco left the classroom with a quick stride, wanting to leave the silence and censure behind him. He was sick of feeling so turbulent, so unsettled and guilty. But at least he had something to distract himself with. The code had said ‘_Nagini is one_’. Draco intended to find out what that meant.

It was simple enough to place an espionage charm on the Golden Trio. The charm only worked when he was in the same room as the three, so he spent the following days tailing them as much as possible. It was aggravating, having their chatter running through his head. They had some of the stupidest conversations, but it paid off on Monday. He overheard Granger reprimand the boys. They weren’t taking ‘it’ seriously and she commanded them to meet at the library that evening. 

Rule number nine: _Patience always pays off._

Draco was sure to be at the library right after dinner. He claimed a table in a quiet corner of the room and put a light camouflage charm on himself, just enough to make him unobtrusive. The Golden Trio arrived near closing time. He watched them sneak into the restricted section when no one was looking. The two boys stood guard and Granger cast a silencing spell. She pulled a book off the shelf and flipped to some specific page. She placed an empty piece of parchment on the page and cast a complex copying spell. From Draco’s vantage point, it appeared she’d only copied one page. She returned the book and then they all slipped out of the library. 

There wasn’t enough time for Draco to get the book they’d copied; Madam Pince was already shooing students out. Draco could have hidden in the stacks and layered on more camouflage spells, but he knew the librarian could spend hours straightening up. He didn’t feel like waiting her out. He returned to his dorms and went to bed, setting an alarm for a few hours.

The alarm roused him at one in the morning. It was easy enough to slip out of his room and up to library. He didn’t bother with a silencing charm on the shelf, the way that Granger had. There was an easier way in because Filch, in charge of cleaning, was a Squib. He needed a way to remove the books for maintenance and dusting that didn’t require magic. Draco paused at the label on the side of the shelf. Books in the restriction section were alphabetized by the author’s last name. This shelf read ‘M-O’. Draco slipped the label out of its holder and turned it over, disabling the alarm. He then stepped to the row where Granger had pulled out the book and glanced over the spines. He hadn’t been able to read the title of the book she’d picked out, but he’d seen the cover. Black cloth and medium-sized. He spotted it and pulled it off the shelf. There was no title on the cover.

Draco took it to the nearest table and set the book on its spine. He tapped the pages lightly with his wand. The book slammed open, the pages flipping wildly by some unseen force until they came to a halt. Draco smirked; he had thought it was such a book. Books that dealt in dark magic, such as this one, were usually charmed to open to the last page that was read. It was a safety measure that allowed the owner of the book to know if someone had been reading it uninvited. As much of Hogwarts’ library had been donated, many of these charms remained in place. 

Draco looked down at the page. The writing was in Latin, which was easy enough to read, although the script itself was cramped. 

_A soul-fracture occurs after a dark act, such as premeditated murder, is committed. A fractured soul can have a negative impact on the body, creating weakness, fatigue, insomnia, and other such somatic complaints. It can also negatively impact magic-casting. Herpo the Foul, suffering this effect after slaughtering a rival in his sleep, took the fractured part of his soul and placed it into a modified Pensieve, therefore removing the effect of the soul-fracture. He called this a horcrux. As a result of this ritual, his execution at the hands of Emperor Archimedes was unsuccessful, leading to rumors that he was immortal. He fled to Italy where he lived for another hundred years until the horcrux was destroyed during a siege on his tower. He never fully recovered from this attack and succumbed to his injuries some years later. It is theorized that had his horcrux not been destroyed, he could have lived indefinitely._

There was little else detailed on the page. Draco flipped through the rest of the book, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. The book appeared to be a compendium of dark maladies and forbidden magic. Draco put it back on the shelf, making a mental note to come back to it one day. He reset the alarm on the shelf and then went back to bed, his mind already working to dissect this information. He’d never heard of a horcrux before, but it was a piece of the puzzle that slotted everything else into place. The horcrux was how the Dark Lord had stayed alive all these years, and how he’d been able to return to power. The fact that Bill’s message read ‘_Nagini is one_’ suggested that there were more horcruxes. But how many? And what were they?

And what were the other benefits of a horcrux? Draco doubted the Dark Lord created them just to preserve his life. His desire for immortality was well-known, but he equally craved power. And how were they created? Apart from the murder, that is. Was it a ritual of some kind? And how were they destroyed? Would simple physical force do? Or would it have to be a spell?

He had too many questions. He made a list, intending to research it further, and then finally returned to sleep in the early hours of the morning. 

He was used to late nights, so he got up the next morning only slightly irritable. He sent for a couple of books from the Manor library but didn’t get the chance to do any readding in the following days. He may be a genius, but there were only so many hours in each day. And Draco would much rather study runes in his free time. 

There were no further coded messages in Ancient Runes, and when Draco stayed behind after class on Thursday, Bill appeared to be in much better spirits. They resumed their work on the matrixes, picking out the key languages to start studying, isolating any similarities in the formation of the runes, grammar sequences, and so forth. 

They reached a lull in their work when Draco finally spoke up. “So, horcruxes.”

Bill started, turning towards him with disbelief. “How did you-?” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Just when I think you can’t surprise me anymore. Alright, how’d you figure that one out?”

“I followed the Golden Trio and spied on their research.”

Bill snorted a little. “Golden Trio.”

It was clear that he found the nickname funny. Draco couldn’t blame him and snickered a little himself. 

“I don’t think you can laugh, _Ice Prince of Slytherin_,” Bill said.

Draco shrugged a shoulder. “At least mine sounds impressive.” 

“It makes you sound like fairy-tale character.”

Perhaps it did. Draco changed the subject. “I assume by the message that there’s more than one horcrux?”

“I’m not going to answer that. I don’t want you involved.”

“I am involved.”

“Not in this. It’s dangerous.”

“The others know.”

“Miss Granger is seventeen now, a legal adult. She’s entitled to certain information.”

Draco frowned. He hated being one of the youngest in his grade, especially now. “How many do you think there are?”

“Draco, please.”

“We’re going to have to talk about these things. The Dark Lord is gaining power, my father is a Death Eater, and you’re spying on them both. It’s going to come up in conversation.”

Bill sighed and took a seat on a nearby desk. “You’re not wrong, but you’re also not right.”

Draco mirrored him, perching on the desk across the row. “How so?”

“We started having a conversation last week, but we both stopped ourselves from saying what we meant. I was afraid of offending you, that’s what stopped me. And I think you were afraid of something as well, though I’m not sure what. I think we need to be honest with each other.” 

Draco felt a sudden wave of nausea. He kept his face carefully blank, but Bill seemed to notice. He smiled. “I’ll go first.” 

Bill took in a breath, let it out, and said, “I went to a dark revel last week. But the meeting before that was smaller. It was mostly Voldemort’s inner circle giving updates about their various schemes and projects. It was normal, well, normal for people who were trying to take over the world.” 

Bill said it wryly, an attempt at humor. Draco couldn’t bring himself to fake a smile. 

“Voldemort was angry at that meeting. He’s always angry, but that night I could tell it was worse than usual. He wanted to hurt someone. He started with Snape, because he asked about the attack during the Quidditch game, but that wasn’t enough for him. He must have used the Cruciatus on half of his inner circle, on his most trusted followers, who were just trying to help him, and I couldn’t understand it. Why would these people serve someone, grovel before someone, who was just going to torture them? Voldemort wasn’t even inspiring in that moment. He was… a child, throwing a tantrum.

“But then I went to the revel and I realized why they followed him. They followed him so that they could torture people too. They got to inflict pain and suffering on whoever they pleased. They got to act on their worst instincts without guilt, without censure, without retribution. And then I saw Voldemort take part in the revel. He was truly awful, in the original meaning of the world. The things he did, the power he possesses… I was awestruck. And horrified. And I have never been more scared in my life.” Bill looked up and met Draco’s gaze. “What I wanted to ask you last week was, does that appeal to you?”

Draco’s first instinct was to say no. The idea of a revel – full of people and noise, full of taunting and jeering, full of screaming – did not appeal to him. It was too wild, too loud and chaotic. But the purpose of a dark revel was to celebrate power. Draco couldn’t deny he liked that.

He licked his lips. “I obliviated Blaise, you know that.”

“Yes.”

“But I also obliviated the others.”

“What?”

“Warrington, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle. They were attacking Blaise. I knocked them all out and locked them in the debate room. I trashed the place and obliviated them so they wouldn’t remember. Them I implanted my memories of destroying the room into their minds, so they’d take the blame for it. Then I obliviated Blaise.” Draco tapped his fingers together, 1 to 2-4-3-5, faster and faster. “It felt good to do that because I was so angry. I was angry at Blaise for being an idiot and putting himself at risk, I was angry at Warrington for deeming it acceptable to assault a fellow Slytherin, and I was angry at myself for missing all the signs that the attack was going to happen the first place. In that moment, it felt good to hurt them.”

“That’s different.” 

“Is it? I’d given orders, they weren’t followed, and I responded with physical harm.”

“They were attacking Blaise. You did what you needed to protect him and yourself.”

Draco let out a breath of irritation. “You’re not listening. Or I’m not being clear. I wanted to toy with Nott as we were dueling. If it hadn’t been so risky, I would have. I _enjoyed_ that I bested him and had him at my mercy. If I weren’t pretending to be average, I….” he stopped and pulled in a breath. He realized his fingers were fumbling over each other in their agitation and he forced them still. “There is something appealing about having control, about having power. And when I’m angry, sometimes I want to hurt people and I want to revel in it.”

He studied the floor, not wanting to see Bill’s expression, not wanting to see if it changed anything between them. Merlin, this was a stupid idea, being honest.

“Thank you,” said Bill.

It was so unexpected, Draco had to look up. The professor didn’t seem worried or repulsed by what Draco had said. In fact, he was nodding.

“It makes a little more sense now.” 

Draco narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t quite believe if he was being serious or not. “You’ve never enjoyed hurting anyone,” he accused. 

“Sure I have,” said Bill. “I’ve gotten into some spectacular arguments before, and I’ve said exactly what would cause the most pain.” 

Draco huffed out a breath of half-laughter; he couldn’t help it. Words were not the same as physical damage.

Bill looked offended. “I want you to know that there is a downside to being this friendly. It means that people tell me things, and when I get angry enough, I know where to hit them so it hurts. I’m not proud of it, and I’ve matured a lot since I was kid, but I said some pretty awful things and I’ve had to beg for forgiveness afterwards.” 

“Why are you so friendly?” 

Bill shrugged. “I like people. I like all the little things that make people unique and interesting, but most people learn to hide those things. I try to be friendly and everyone as comfortable as possible so they don’t have to hide. Sometimes that means I share my quirks or weird habits first to put others at ease. Not everyone likes that. Some people find it strange that I’m so open with them and think I’m being over-familiar.”

Draco tipped his head to the side. “It is strange but it’s also refreshing. High Pureblood society is full of masks and disguises. It’s rare that anyone is just themselves.”

Bill pointed at him. “You are the most disguised person I’ve ever met in my life. It’s astounding how you’ve kept hidden for so long. You are a true deceiver.”

It was clear he didn’t mean it offensively. Draco inclined his head. "As a Slytherin, I thank you.”

Bill grinned, then sobered. “Alright, your turn. What did you want to ask me last week?” 

“I don’t remember.” As soon as he said it, he realized his mistake. It was a typical excuse, one he’d used before, but Bill knew his secret. He never forgot anything. 

Bill laughed at him. Draco sighed. “It’s not important.”

“I think it is.”

“Compared to your existential angst, it is.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“It’s… personal.”

“You have my absolute discretion.”

Draco sighed again. “You mentioned Lucius last week, and I realized that you see him more than I do. I only saw him a few times over the summer, and I won’t see him again until – until the end of the year, and I just… I wanted to ask…,” it was hard to say it, but he forced it out, “how is he?”

Bill’s face softened slightly. “There was something else I wanted to ask you last week. It was something I’ve been thinking of for a while now. I’ve seen Lucius be cruel, and I wondered if he was ever cruel to you. But you seem to care about him very much.”

“He’s never been cruel to me.” It was easy to tell Bill that about his father. Everything else was complicated, but that was a simple truth, and one Draco wanted to share.

“Your father appears to be doing well,” Bill said. “He asks Severus about you quite frequently.”

Draco felt something warm release in his chest at Bill’s answer. It spread across his face as well and he ducked his head to hide the flush. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, how about we get back to these runes? They aren’t going to translate themselves.”

OoOoO

It was easy working with Draco. That is, the actual translating work was easy. Draco may not have any actual experience, but he understood the process, had a good working knowledge of the major runes, and was incredibly adept at taking in new information and jumping to the logical conclusion. Bill was, quite frankly, amazed. And a little jealous. They completed the matrixes and then isolated the languages that they’d study for the comparison. They decided to focus on five languages to start. Draco already knew three of them, and Bill dug out some references so he could learn the other two. 

“Take your time,” he said. “We’ll start with the three you know.”

Draco flipped through the first book. “This one seems similar to the Macedonian script.”

He made that assessment lightning fast. Bill nodded. “It is.”

Draco turned to the next and his brow furrowed. Bill knew what he was seeing. This set of glyphs, an archaic Roman variation, was one of the more complicated runes, an uncomfortable, heavy sort of language. 

“This one might take a while. But I’ve got time this weekend, and I can skip some-,”

“No,” Bill interrupted.

Draco looked up, one eyebrow arched. “It’s not like I need to be in class.”

“And it’s not like we’re under a time crunch,” Bill said. “We’ve got three languages to tear apart before getting to these ones, and that’ll take six weeks at minimum. You’ve got time and I know you’re busy enough as it is. I was a sixth-year Prefect myself.”

Draco acquiesced with a shrug and tucked the books into his bag. He left with a wave goodbye. The door shut behind him and for a moment, Bill stared at it, unmoving, his brain trying to sort through all this new information.

Being honest with Draco had gone better than he was expecting. He’d been able to speak his mind, and Draco hadn’t resented him or grown angry, or denied what he was saying. That was all hopeful. And Draco had been honest as well, had admitted to being angry at times and wanting to hurt people. That was normal, but Draco seemed to be suggesting more than that. He suggested he might get some enjoyment out of it. And yet, in all of Draco’s interactions so far, he’d controlled that impulse. He did not torture his classmates for fun when they were at his mercy. He did not reveal his genius to lord it over them and gain power; he remained hidden. It made Bill think that Draco’s true intentions were self-preservation, but what did Bill know? He wasn’t a mind-healer. Maybe he should consult with one, get some tips, or read up on illnesses of the mind. 

He packed up his things and returned to his office. He opted to have dinner delivered, rather than heading down the great hall because he still needed to lesson plan for the next day. This spy-business was really cutting into his teaching. 

There was a knock at his door later that evening. He looked up to see Ginny come in, Potions book in hand along with a notebook and a collection of spare study pages.

“You have to help me,” she said and plopped her schoolwork down on his desk. She pulled up a chair. “You need to explain this to me like I’m a first year.”

Bill pulled the book closer to him and scanned through the pages. He’d always enjoyed Potions in school, although being a curse-breaker meant he rarely used it in his profession. He was a little chagrinned to realized how rusty he’d gotten.

“It’s the addendum to Boiler’s Constant,” he realized. “Do you remember learning about that?”

“Yes, I remember learning about it. Did I fully understand it? No, not really.”

Bill looked up at her, surprised. “You’ve never had problems with school before.”

“I don’t have problems with school,” Ginny defended herself. “I have problems with _Potions_. My brain does not understand it. But I need to get at least nine OWLs, otherwise mom will accuse me of not putting enough effort into school, and then she’ll think that the boys are right, and I’m failing school because I’m distracted with dating, but that’s not what’s happening here, I swear it isn’t, so I just need-,” 

Bill held up a hand, forestalling her. She pulled in a breath and let it out. She turned pleading eyes onto him and he smiled. 

“Of course, I’ll help.”

“You won’t tell mom?”

“I don’t see why you can’t tell her. Not everyone’s good at Potions.”

“She wants me to go into healing, like she did.”

Bill raised his eyebrows. That was the first he’d heard of it. “She does?”

“She never says it outright, but she… drops hints, you know how she does it. Just little tidbits here and there, little pricks of guilt that make you think you’re doing the wrong thing.” Ginny sighed and shrugged. “She wanted one of us to follow her footsteps, and I’m her last shot.”

“You wanted to play Quidditch last I remember.”

“I like Quidditch. I just don’t know how useful it is. I want to do something useful.”

“Like what?”

“I was thinking of something to do with the law. Like become an attorney.”

“Huh,” said Bill. 

“What does ‘huh’ mean?”

“It means I’m thinking about it.” Bill tipped his head to the side and nodded. “You’d be good at it. You always did know how to argue.”

She rolled her eyes and drew his attention back to her Potions work. Bill walked her through as much as he could remember and at the end of a half hour, they were both frustrated, but some progress had been made. 

“Think you got it now?” 

“Maybe. If not, I’m coming back.”

“My door is always open.”

She stood and packed up her book and papers. “Find those horcruxes yet?”

Bill threw up his hands in exasperation. “How does everyone know about the horcruxes?”

“I got it out of Ron. I was thinking, since I was possessed by a horcrux, maybe I could be of help with them.”

“The fact that you were that close to one already means I’d like you not to have to deal with them again.”

“It’s a nice wish, but I am the one with the most experience. It makes sense to use me if needed.” 

Bill sighed and considered her. She stared back at him, fearless and composed. “What was it like?” 

She put her book down and tipped her head to the side. “There was a lot of emotions in the diary. A lot of anger. A lot of spite. A lot of desire.”

“The desire for what?”

“Power, mostly.”

Bill thought back to Draco’s words. “Do you suppose the desire for power is what made him go so bad?”

“All of Slytherin wants power and they’re not all evil. Zabini for one. He wants power, but he wants it to effect change.”

“What do you suppose young Tom Riddle wanted with his power?”

“To hurt people,” Ginny answered, rather bluntly. She saw the look of alarm on Bill’s face and continued. “Not everyone. He wasn’t that crazy then. But he’d been hurt, rather badly, and so he wanted the power to hurt them back. When the desire for revenge became more encompassing, that’s when he became Lord Voldemort. But when I met him, he was just a teenaged boy who learned to turn hurt into a weapon, and in doing so, destroyed himself.”

It was disturbing to hear her talk about it so calmly, her voice flat and matter of fact. Bill cursed that he’d been so far away when all this had happened. He reached out, pulling her into a hug, and she stepped into it willingly. 

“Ginny,” he asked, face pressed into her hair, “Are you okay?”

She tipped her head back to look at him. “Bill, I’m fine.”

“No, are you… are you healed?”

She scrunched up her nose as she thought. “I’m fully healed, I’m just… different now. It feels like an okay sort of different. Although,” she grinned a little. “I don’t think I’d get into Gryffindor if I got sorted again.”

“You think you’d get Slytherin?”

“What?” She stepped back. “Merlin, no. I’d go Hufflepuff.”

“_What?_”

She grinned at him. “I’ve reached enlightenment, Bill. I no longer want daring adventures and escapades at Hogwarts. I want parties and hangouts with friends. Did you know that Hufflepuffs have access to the kitchens, all day and night? They have the best parties, and everyone’s laid-back, and I’m pretty sure the seventh years have made their own distillery, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“What?” Bill asked again.

“Seriously, Hufflepuffs. Chiller than Ravenclaws, but still get to skip all the yearly Voldemort problems.”

“I will take that under advisement.”

She kissed his cheek and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this is a cross-post of a fic I am re-vammping over on FFN. If you've read the story already, you can check it out over there to read my notes on the editing process, or if you haven't, stick around here to avoid spoilers. Please leave a comment to let me know what you think!


	13. Rule 10: Be prepared to fight

_Rule number ten: Be prepared to fight in all forms of combat._

Snow fell in late October, like a Halloween prank, and then vanished for the rest of November. The Quidditch stadium was rebuilt and Gryffindor and Slytherin had their re-match. Gryffindor was better prepared for Slytherin’s Chasers this time around, and although it was a contested match, Gryffindor came out the winner. It was disappointing but inevitable. Potter _was_ the better Seeker.

November ended and the snow returned, as if summoned by the change of calendar. Tensions in Slytherin remained high, building as they neared the first of the debates, scheduled for the week before Christmas break. There were no further attacks on Blaise, but Draco heard slurs and insults being directed at him and those that joined him on the window seats. Blaise bore the bullying with admirable equanimity, but he had little choice in the matter. There were simply not enough supporters of equality in Slytherin to stand a chance against the larger group. Draco took to doing his homework in the common room in his sofa by the fireplace, even though he preferred his room or the library. He knew no one would dare start a war in his presence without his approval. Warrington chafed and paced and glared at him, but he couldn’t exactly accuse Draco of interfering. 

But Draco was just one person. He wasn’t always going to be around to play referee. Although… 

Draco pursed his lips one Wednesday night, early-December, and studied the room. It was divided again, and it was always worst on Wednesdays, right after the Debate Classes met. It was unfortunate that the Neutral Party didn’t get to meet; they were only allowed to attend the Equality or Superiority meetings. They were effectively silenced, as if their position of neutrality was somehow abhorrent. As if their own worth was lessened because they wouldn’t pick a side. There was something to be done here, but Draco didn’t know what. Nor did he care to dwell on it. Those thoughts created too much turmoil. He preferred Ancient Runes. 

He and Bill were still in the early stages of their work, but there were a few promising algorithms. Draco impatiently waited through Thursday class, and once the rest of the students had left, he was up and moving towards the board. Bill pulled out the chalkboard and they picked up where they had left off. 

Draco had gotten rather comfortable with Bill. He’d begun looking forward to these short hours where he could drop his façade and become the undecided child genius he was. And he was beginning to like Bill as well, something that unnerved him, because he found himself relaxing more around him. Consequentially, he talked more. He supposed it was because Bill never pried, and he seemed to genuinely want to know about Draco’s life, not just gather intel. In return, Bill was incredibly open with him. 

"So, does your mother know that you're so smart?" Bill asked, as he flipped through a book on Persian wizarding history.

Draco paused for a moment. Narcissa wasn’t as bad to talk about as Lucius, because he cared little for her, but she wove a complex pattern in his life. She was tied into some of his worst memories. And why did Bill want to know? 

Draco narrowed his eyes at the professor. 

Bill, used to his general distrust of the world, simply shrugged. “It just seems like a hard thing to hide from a mother."

"My mother is a lot of things," Draco said. “Attentive to me is not one of them."

"But surely she noticed it when you were young," said Bill. "I mean, my mother taught me everything when I was young – how to read, how to tie my shoes, how to clean the house.” Bill paused, considering. “It got a little smothering after a while. Thankfully she had other kids to distract her. Now she only bugs me about my hair. I will not go near her when she has a pair of scissors in her hands for fear she'll just grab and chop away."

Draco smirked at that mental picture.

"So, your mother didn't notice," said Bill, and Draco felt his mouth moving before he had consciously decided to speak.

"The first time I saw my mother was when I was five," he said. "I was shown pictures of her, and occasionally glimpsed her leaving the house, but she was never a part of my life. Grand-mere said that when I was born, she refused to hold me or feed me. She handed me to Lucius, and that was that. She went on with her life and ignored my very existence.” 

Bill stared at him, eyes wide and slightly horrified. Draco felt oddly embarrassed and was quick to add in some context. 

“You have to understand that my parents’ marriage is… complicated. It was marriage of two old houses, advantageous for both sides, but with little else to recommend it. Narcissa was beautiful and charming and intelligent, the most pursued of her cohort. Lucius was the wealthiest of her suitors and had the best lineage. She picked him knowing that he could provide a certain lifestyle. All that would be required was she would birth him an heir, preferably male, and that she would be discrete when she took lovers. She failed at the second, but with the marriage alliance…,” Draco trailed off and shrugged. “No one will say anything. No one _dares_ to say anything.”

Bill sat back in his chair and was silent for a minute, letting all that information digest. “Merlin. That’s messed up.”

Draco snorted. “Yeah, well, at the very least it gives me a reason to be prat. Bad home life and all that.” He said it flippantly, hoping to distill some of the concern on Bill's face, but the red-haired man just looked even more worried.

"How bad is it?" 

Draco shook his head. “Narcissa isn’t around a lot, and when she is, she’s usually too drunk or high on pleasure potions to be a bother. And Lucius doesn’t let her have parties at home anymore, not since….” He stopped that train of thought from going any further and shifted topics. “Lucius raised me. He tries to be home, but he’s got businesses to attend. And the Ministry to run from.”

Bill smiled at his wry tone. “My mom was always home. She used to be a medi-witch, but when she had kids, she and my dad agreed she’d stay home to raise us. With seven of us, she was kept pretty busy, but she always seemed available. Perhaps too available at times. She could be scared of letting us go off on our own. When I went home for break in my first year, she cried the entire time and almost didn't let me go back." He chuckled a little at the memory.

Draco considered the picture he’d painted: a loving, traditional, busy family. “It sounds strange, but not terrible.”

Bill grinned. “What about Lucius then? How hard was it to keep from him?”

That was the harder question. Bill hadn’t asked a lot about Lucius, although he had taken to letting Draco know when he saw Lucius and that his health appeared good. Draco was grateful for the information, but now Bill was asking to know more about him. He wanted a glimpse into something that Draco didn’t fully understand himself. Draco had avoided analyzation of his relationship with his father, half in fear of what he’d discover and half because it opened a door into longing and loneliness, and it was just easier to push it aside. It was easy to avoid talking about Lucius with other people. Draco did it by talking about Lucius too much – bragging about things that Lucius had bought him, or expounding on his position of power, or threatening to tattle to his father if he was ever treated unfairly. It made everyone assume the relationship was good. They didn’t pry any deeper and Draco left them to their assumptions. 

But now Bill was asking, and he wasn’t sure what to say. Worse than that, he didn’t know what the answer was, and that leant itself into a panic that he didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to communicate. His fingers sped through his piano exercise, 1 to 2-4-3-5, faster and faster, as he tried to find some way of ending the conversation or changing the subject. 

The silence grew and became strained. Draco could feel the urge to bolt becoming stronger – but wouldn’t that be ridiculous? He couldn’t just run out of the room. He locked his muscles in place. They tightened to the point of trembling, but he didn’t realize it until Bill lay a hand on his shoulder. Draco’s immediate impulse was to flinch away, but Bill followed the motion, his hand still gentle, somehow calming.

“Hey, easy. You don’t have to answer. You can tell me to shove off if you want. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Draco kept his gaze firmly away from Bill’s, but he couldn’t say what he was staring at. Bill tapped his shoulder lightly and he looked up automatically. 

Bill's eyes were soft, kind. "Do you want me to change the subject?" 

Draco was faintly aware that Bill was pulling some mind-healer bullshit with him. He was giving Draco a way to end the conversation, but he still had to admit that he didn’t want to talk about it. It was a way for him to take responsibility for his emotions without having to face them in that moment. Draco would have wondered if Bill was reading up on mind-healing, but his brain wasn’t thinking that clearly. 

Draco looked away and jerked his head in a nod.

"I don't know what that means," said Bill. "You have to say it. What do you want me to do?"

He should have known he wouldn't get away with a non-verbal answer. He swallowed hard. "Change the subject.”

To his credit, Bill didn’t say 'Wasn't that easy?' or anything condescending like that. Instead, he changed the subject. “Are you looking forward to the holidays?” 

Draco felt the tension in his body start to recede. “Not really. I’m staying here. Narcissa is off who knows where, and Lucius is most likely out of the country."

"You don't celebrate Christmas?"

"We did when we were still in France, but that’s because my father’s relatives were there. When we moved here after my grand-mère died, it was just us and…,” Draco shrugged. “Lucius was away on business more often, and Narcissa prefers to travel. I typically get access to the vaults to buy myself what I want. I bought myself a Firebolt for my birthday this year."

Bill’s eyebrows furrowed, like he thought something was wrong with their arrangement. “How long did you live in France?" 

"Until I was eight.” 

"Was it hard learning another language?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. 

Bill laughed. “Yeah, I guess that was stupid question.”

“I picked up English _too_ quickly,” Draco admitted. “Even in France, I’d overheard people speak English – some of Narcissa’s family when they visited, and different business partners of Lucius. I was supposed to be formally instructed when I was five, but a year before that, we had some English relatives staying over for a few months. I started speaking English back to them after – oh, four weeks or so. Everyone thought it was incredible, and then Father noticed, and… it was a lot of attention. But it wasn’t just attention, it was expectation. It felt heavy, the way they all watched me, and would start quizzing me, and suddenly I couldn’t play on my own anymore, or spend time in my rooms, everyone wanted to hear me speak English.”

Draco twirled the piece of chalk he was holding through his fingers. “I was used to being alone. I preferred it really, so I made a couple of mistakes in translating and played stupid when they started quizzing me. After a few days, they lost interest in me. And that was how I learned to pretend to be average.” 

There was a moment of silence after he stopped talking. Draco was growing accustomed to these silences. Bill took his time processing what Draco said. Sometimes his reactions made Draco realize how decidedly abnormal his life was. Sometimes they made Bill sad, which then made Draco defensive and angry. Who was Bill to decide that something in his life was tragic?

Sometimes, like this, Bill just nodded when he was done thinking. “You ever get so over tired that your brain just flits between language?”

“Far too often,” Draco admitted. “English to French is the worst, but I went through a Latin phase when I was ten and it was hard to switch back.”

“You should have seen me after my first long-term dig,” Bill said, already laughing at the memory. “We were working twelve-hour shifts and translating on the fly. I tried sending a letter home to Mum, because she was pressuring me to keep in touch, but I accidentally wrote it in runes. She was so concerned that I was kidnapped or trying to send her a coded message, that she overnighted a pecking owl back to my supervisor, asking what had happened. He came into my tent that morning, owl still dive-bombing him, and forced me to Apparate to the nearest town to Floo-call her.”

Bill shook his head and chuckled again. Draco smirked, though it was softer than usual, and might even be taken as a smile. They continued working in companionable silence until the hour was up.

The first Superiority vs. Equality debate came on the Wednesday evening before break. The students filed into the Great Hall and Draco could tell that the majority of students didn’t want to be there. The younger students weren’t allowed to take part in the debate, and they jostled for seats closest to their friends. The Neutral Party members were given seats in the front and instructed to take notes. Draco pulled out his Transfiguration’s essay to finish. The members of the Equality and Superiority groups took their positions and proceeded to yell at each other for an hour and half. Behind him, the younger students muttered to each other, some out of boredom, others out of interest. As the debate went on and devolved into outright insults, some of the first years began to cry. 

The mood in the castle on Thursday was noticeably grim, which was a shame because it was the last two days before the holiday. That usually meant easy classes. The holiday cheer returned on Friday and the general excitement meant the professors had a hard time reining in their classes. The more experienced professors hadn’t planned any sort of lecture, and some let the classes out early. Stevick did the opposite. He forced the NEWT DADA students to listen to a particularly dry lecture about ancient rituals, and when the students responded with sighs, whispers, and notes passed under the desks, he ended the lecture in favor of a pop quiz.

And Stevick wasn’t playing it easy with the quiz. Draco glanced through the questions and swore. It was so difficult and so specific, even getting an E would be unusual. Draco would have to settle for an A, which meant he’d have to re-do his entire grading trajectory. He swore again, and his wasn’t the only oath that muttered through the room. 

Stevick called the quizzes to him with ten minutes left of class. When some of the students started getting up, sure that class was dismissed, he called them back and then sent the quizzes out in random order. 

“You will grade each other’s quizzes,” he said. “I will not be bringing work with me over break.”

There was some groaning. Some of the students glanced around, trying to spot who had their page. Draco had received Nott’s quiz and took some pleasure in marking it. Nott wasn’t a bad student, but he wasn’t one to remember the small details. The students kept groaning as Stevick read out the answers, and it was apparent that the majority of students would be failing. Some students tried to argue their answers, but Stevick was having none of it. Other students, who were watching the clock, begged their friends to quiet down so they weren’t held over. Stevick called out the last two answers as time wore down and then yanked the quizzes back with a flick of his wand, right as the bell rang. The class waited for Stevick to pass them back, but he simply packed them away in his briefcase. 

“Find your grading partner for your grade,” he said, and exited the room ahead of the students.

“Bloody git!” someone swore.

“Who had my quiz?” Dean Thomas shouted out.

“Who had mine?” Nott parried back.

“Who cares?” Pansy asked, exiting the room with about half of the other students, too eager to leave to care about a grade.

“It was a Poor, Nott,” Draco called out. “Who had mine?”

“Hermione did,” Dean said smugly. “Looks like a lot of corrections on your page, Malfoy.”

Draco swore and grabbed his bag. The Golden Trio had already exited the room, and the halls were pressed tight with students caught in the thrill of being done for the semester. Draco spotted the trio further up the hall, excitedly babbling about Christmas plans.

“Granger!” Draco called.

Draco saw her head turn and her eyes flickered to his face. She turned back and her pace picked up.

“Un-bloody-believable,” Draco muttered. He pushed through a throng of students. Normally he commanded a little more respect than this, but the students were too caught up in their babble and excitement to care about school hierarchy. “Granger!”

She was still avoiding him. Now Potter and Weasley were as well. They put on a burst of speed. It was immature and childish, and Draco shoved by a link of Hufflepuffs and ran to catch up with them.

“Hey, Mudblood!” he spat, frustration staining his voice.

That got their attention – and the attention of the students around them. The Golden Trio stopped and whirled around. The other students fell silent and drew back, watching the interaction.

“What did you call me?” Hermione demanded, voice sharp with fury.

Draco curled his lip. “You heard me.”

Weasley stepped forward. “What the hell do you want, Malfoy?”

“Nothing you could afford,” Draco snapped. “I’m talking to Granger.”

“You’re talking to us,” Potter said, stepping up as well. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Really, Potty, it’s not as if I'm going to portkey her to the Dark Lord. She graded my quiz. I want to know my mark.”

“Like I’d actually tell you after you just insulted me?” Hermione demanded, hands on her hips. “Go to hell.”

“For fuck’s sake, just give me my grade.”

“No,” Hermione said. She turned on her heel, ready to leave. 

Draco needed that grade. He reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder, and she screamed at the contact – obviously interrupting it to be something worse. Harry and Ron reacted instantly.

Harry grabbed Draco’s arm and wrenched it away. Draco hadn’t been expecting the scream, or the attack. He stumbled back a step and Harry took advantage, shoving him back against the wall. Draco’s head hit the stone, just enough to sting. 

He saw Ron’s fist coming at him and he ducked. Ron’s knuckles smashed into stone. He let out a cry of pain. Draco drove his own fist into Ron’s unprotected stomach and the Gryffindor staggered back. Harry launched himself at Draco, and there was no way to defend against that. Draco went toppling, Harry on top of him. Students screamed and tried to get out of the way. Harry landed a hit on his face, hard enough to hurt but not to do any damage. He pulled back again and Draco bucked up, toppling him to the side. He clambered after him, shoving him against the stone, face first. Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and yanked it behind his back. Harry let out a shout of pain.

“Don’t move,” Draco ordered, “or I’ll snap your arm in half."

He didn't notice Ron had recovered until a fist punched him square in the mouth. Draco fell back off of Harry and scrambled to his feet. 

The hall was becoming more crowded as students pressed in close, forming a ring around them. Some called for them to stop, but even more were yelling them on. A chant rose up. ‘Fight! Fight!  
Fight!' 

Ron came at him again, not bothering to keep his center of gravity low. Draco spotted the opening. In dueling, the first thing he’d been taught was unarmed defense.

Rule number ten: Be prepared to fight in all forms of combat.

Draco stepped into Ron’s attack. He grabbed his arm under his elbow and drove his shoulder into the other boy’s gut. From there, a simple twist of his torso and a shove upwards sent Ron tumbling over his body. Harry swung at him with a right cross. Draco stepped back, retreating from Harry’s blows, until he spotted a gap and darted in with an upper cut. It clipped Harry’s chin. Instead of falling back, Harry ducked his head and ran in, swinging wildly. His fist smashed into Draco’s mouth. Draco grunted, blocked the follow-up, and punched Harry straight into the nose. The boy-hero yelped and staggered back, but he didn’t go down. And Ron had already jumped to his feet. He was swinging again. 

Draco pulled out his wand. 

Strong arms caught him up before he could get off a spell. Ron’s fist, which had been aimed at his head, hit the others’ shoulder instead, and then McGonagall’s voice cut through the crowd.

“That is _enough_!”

Everyone froze. Draco pulled back from the arms to see none other than Bill Weasley standing beside him, rubbing his shoulder where his brother had just punched him.

“Everyone will return to their rooms without further delay!” McGonagall ordered.

The other students were quick to obey. The professor rounded on Draco and the Golden Trio, her mouth set in a line. “You lot, follow me!”

She turned and strode down the hall. The Golden Trio followed. 

“You alright, Draco?” Bill asked.

Draco let out a breath and reached up to brush his hair out of his face. It was getting a little too long. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

He followed McGonagall and the Golden Trio into an empty classroom and was relieved when Bill followed. He didn’t think that he’d make out that well against the other four Gryffindors. Not that Bill wasn’t a Gryffindor. Draco just trusted him to be fair. 

Bill closed the door behind them and McGonagall launched into a strident tirade about appropriate behavior for school. Draco glanced at the others, not fully listening. Ron was turning even redder that usual under her lecture, Harry seemed to shrink in on himself. Hermione looked uncomfortable. Even Bill was looking a little abashed. Draco wondered how many times he’d gotten lectured by McGonagall. He couldn’t see Bill getting into too much trouble – but he could see younger-Bill getting into scrapes on account of someone else. 

“I am entirely disappointed at this display!” McGonagall announced as she began to wind down. “And two of you are Prefects at that! Shame on you. Fifty points from Slytherin and a hundred from Gryffindor.”

“A hundred points!” Ron objected.

“Fifty for everyone who was brawling,” McGonagall said. “And count it lucky I don’t take your badges. Now, will someone please explain what had you three fighting like first years?”

"Malfoy attacked Hermione," Ron accused.

McGonagall was quick to turn on him, her eyes already incriminating. “Is that so, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco sneered and leaned back against the wall. “As if I’d dirty my hands by doing so.”

“Mr. Malfoy!” McGonagall’s voice was appalled.

Draco felt his sneer grow. Really, she was too easy to offend. He felt a strange urge to say even more, to wind her up even further. He took a step forward.

“Draco,” said Bill. His voice was calm, steadying. It cut through Draco’s impulse to say something worse – just to see what chaos he could create. Draco looked over to him. Bill’s expression was stern, but also gentle. “How about you tell us what happened.” 

Draco shrugged and leaned back, like he wasn’t just about to dig his own grave with more insults. “Granger graded my Dark Arts quiz. She left without telling me, so I caught up to her in the hall. Insults were exchanged, then Potter and Weasley attacked me.”

"You hurt Hermione!" Ron accused.

"She was walking away," said Draco. "I reached out to stop her. That was it."

Bill and McGonagall turned to Hermione, who winced. “He didn’t hurt me. I was startled, so I screamed.”

Draco arched an eyebrow and turned to McGonagall, wondering what she’d say now. She harrumphed a little. “Potter, Weasley, two weeks of detention when you get back. Malfoy, you will have to go home over break.”

Draco crossed his arms. “Can’t.”

Her mouth pinched. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’.”

“Mother is traveling. And you can’t really release into my father’s care, now can you? Seeing as he’s on the run from the Ministry.” He shrugged a shoulder. “You can’t send me home unsupervised. I’m still a minor.” 

"Apparently you can't stay here unsupervised without drawing your wand on your classmates," said McGonagall.

"Yes, well most people do have a desire to avoid grievous bodily harm.”

McGonagall frowned. "Are you sure your mother cannot be contacted?"

"Quite," said Draco shortly, dismissing the notion with a wave of his hand.

"Decided that they can't stand you either, Malfoy?" asked Ron.

Draco stiffened.

“Ron, shut it,” Bill said, interjecting. His brow was furrowed in thought. “Okay, Draco, since you can’t go home, but because you do need some sort of supervision, you’ll have your detention over break with Hagrid. He could always use the extra help. You’ll join him after lunches during the week.”

What? Detention with _Hagrid_? Was Bill serious?

“Hermione, could you please tell Draco his grade?”

"A," said Hermione.

Draco barely registered it, still staring at Bill, uncomprehending.

"Good," said Bill. "Now you are all dismissed."

Draco watched the Golden Trio escape from the classroom. Draco stayed behind, catching the way that McGonagall nodded approvingly to Bill as she left. The door swung shut behind her. 

Bill turned to Draco. “What was that?” He gestured to the room at large, indicating the argument and Draco’s sneering performance.

“What was that?” Draco retorted, gesturing back to Bill. “I can’t be ‘unsupervised’? I'm a bloody genius! You think I can’t be alone for two weeks? I've spent entire summers home alone."

"You drew your wand," Bill said.

“They started it!” Draco protested, and once the words were out of his mouth, he heard how childish they sounded.

Bill raised his eyebrows, clearly hearing it himself. “You were going to escalate it. You know the punishment is completely fair, don’t even try to blame me.”

Draco felt his outrage deflate. He dropped back against the wall and crossed his arms. “I suppose.” The words were hard to get out. He glared over at Bill. “But Hagrid? Really?”

"What’s wrong with Hagrid?" 

“He’s an imbecile. He’s lumbering and unrefined and…,” Draco tried to find the words to express his distaste of the professor.

“Is it because he’s a half-giant?” Bill asked.

“What?” Draco felt a little affronted. “No. It’s just… I was probably smarter than him when I was two years old, and having him be a professor when I’m smarter than him is ridiculous!”

“Draco,” Bill said, a note of humor in his voice, “you’re smarter than every teacher here.”

Draco blinked. “Well… yes.”

“You’re smarter than me. Do you dislike me?”

“I want to.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he said. They were far more honest than he was intending. He froze and glanced over at Bill. The professor looked a little startled. Draco hastily changed the subject. “You’re an expert in your field. I’m smarter than you, but you can still teach me things.”

“And Hagrid isn’t an expert in his field?”

Draco tapped his fingers together. “Well, I suppose he is.”

“You don’t like the care-taking fields,” Bill surmised. “You prefer more intellectual pursuits to tasks that will get your hands dirty.” He laughed. “You’re a snob, Draco.”

There was nothing condemning about his laugh. Draco felt his own lips quirk up. “I admit it.”

“As a genius, you must understand the benefits of tutelage under an expert, even if it isn’t your choice of subject. No field of study is completely isolated. Care of Magical Creatures has plenty of crossover information, like potions, herbology, and healing. I know that Hagrid can come off as slow, but you should try to look a little deeper. You’d learn a lot.” 

Draco sighed. Bill had a point. “Fine.”

Bill changed the topic. “What were you doing with McGonagall?”

Draco shrugged. “She’s fun to rile up.”

“At what cost? Were you trying to get a month of detention?”

“Snape would’ve got me out of it.”

Bill shook his head. “Well, I was actually looking for you, before your little tussle in the hall.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “What for?”

Bill pulled a box out of his school bag and tossed it to him. Draco caught the box and stared at it. The box was wrapped in green paper with faintly embossed Christmas trees. A red ribbon wrapped around the middle. 

Draco frowned down at it. “You bought me a Christmas present?” 

“You needed a real gift. Not one you paid for yourself.” 

Draco looked up, startled at the gesture. 

“In fact,” Bill said, “I seriously doubt that you'd be able to buy that particular present at all. It's not really in the shops. Well, Happy Christmas.”

He turned to leave, pulling open the door before Draco could find anything else to say. For some reason, ‘thank you’ was getting stuck in his throat, so he blurted out, “You’re not going to tell me to wait until Christmas to open it?”

Bill turned. He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting Draco’s and Draco wondered what he was seeing. Was he seeing gratitude? Was he seeing confusion? Was he picking up on the stirring of unease underneath it all? 

Bill grinned. “No. It takes away all the fun.”

He winked and left, leaving Draco standing in the middle of the room, staring after him, the present clutched in his hands. 

OoOoO

Bill trekked through the snow to Hagrid’s hut that evening. He had a hundred things on his to-do list, including packing so he could actually make it on the train tomorrow morning, but this was important. He knocked on the door. 

“Com’on in!” 

Hagrid’s deep voice carried through the door. Bill stepped into the caretaker’s house. He’d always liked Hagrid’s hut – not that he’d want it for himself, rustic wasn’t really his style – but it was always warm, welcoming, and comfortably cluttered. It reminded Bill a little of the Burrow, although with more rough edges. He joined Hagrid at his table. The half-giant had just finished his meal. A large bowl had been pushed aside, scraped clean. Stew, by the smell of it.

“Got more, if yeh’d like,” Hagrid said, gesturing to an enormous pot held over the flame. By the look of it, Hagrid would be eating stew for the week.

“No, thanks,” Bill said. “I already ate, and I’m afraid I can’t stay long. I’ve got grades to log and tests to file before the end of tonight. And somehow, I’ve lost an entire stack of homework assignments for my seventh years. And I’ve still got to pack.” 

“End o’ semester is always busy,” Hagrid agreed. “What’s got yeh droppin’ by then?”

Bill sat forward. “To be honest, I owe you an apology.”

Hagrid regarded him curiously. “But yeh haven’ done nothin’.”

“It’s pre-emptive,” Bill said. “I gave Draco Malfoy detention with you over break.”

It took a moment for Hagrid to process the news. Bill could see the emotions cross his face, confusion, then understanding, and then distaste. “Wha’d he do?”

“He fought with Ron and Harry, but they started the tussle, so it’s not all on him.”

Hagrid’s mouth twisted. “I don’t wan’ any Malfoys fer the holidays.”

“He can’t go home. His mother’s traveling and his father… well, for obvious reasons we can’t send him to Lucius. But I was thinking you might be good for him.”

“Good fer ‘im?” 

“Maybe you could show him some kindness over the break?”

“Kindness?” Hagrid erupted, voice booming in the small hut. “After what ‘e did ter poor Buckbuck?”

Shit, that was right. Bill vaguely remembered the story about Ron’s third year. Honestly, he’d heard it fourth-hand and he wasn’t sure all of it could be true. Time-travel? Really? But part of the story had been rescuing a hippogriff after Lucius Malfoy had called for its execution. The story had included something about Draco deliberately provoking the animal, but again, Bill wasn’t sure how much of that was entirely accurate. 

“I won’ ever forgive ‘im fer that,” Hagrid announced. “Not ter mention, his behavior. He’s always mean, always laughin’ at the smaller students, and the Muggleborns, and pickin’ fights and bullyin’. An’ in class, he’s awful, even ter the other professors. No respect in ‘im. Not fer anyone.”

Bill scrubbed a hand over his face as Hagrid continued to list his complaints. He knew there was a way to smooth things over. Hagrid had a soft spot for misunderstood creatures, and his heart bled for any animal that had been abandoned. And didn’t Draco fit that description? But Bill would have to break Draco’s confidence to change Hagrid’s opinion of the boy. Could he do that? Was it right?

“’He’s jus’ like his father, lemme tell yeh,” Hagrid continued. “Why, jus’ last year-,” 

“His mother doesn’t want him,” Bill blurted out.

It made Hagrid pause mid-rant. “What’d yeh say?”

Bill carefully picked his words, trying to find a way to make Hagrid understand without completely exposing Draco’s secrets. “He can’t go home for Christmas because his mother isn’t there. She’s not celebrating with him. Not even when she’s the only parent available.” 

There, that was all true without getting too detailed. But it wasn’t going to be enough. Hagrid still looked angry. He folded his arms and frowned at Bill.

“I’ve been tutoring him in Ancient Runes,” Bill said. “We’ve… talked a few times. And from what I understand, he doesn’t have a good relationship with her. That is… she’s been absent for a lot of his life.”

He watched Hagrid’s expression, for any signs of softening, but whatever Draco had done to Hagrid, he’d turned the professor hard against him. 

“He’s buying his own Christmas gifts,” Bill tried.

Hagrid blinked, just once. Bill took it as a sign of softening and elaborated. “He buys his own gifts because his parents don’t bother going shopping for him. They just pay him back afterwards. He bought his own birthday gift over the summer, and he’s doing it again for Christmas. And now his mother isn’t even spending the holiday with him. I understand that he’s not a nice kid, but… you know that if animals are neglected or treated poorly, they become aggressive, even vicious.” 

“There’s a big diff’rence ‘tween people an’ animals, Bill,” Hagrid said slowly. “Animals dunno right from wrong.”

“Draco’s still learning. And it’s not as if he’s had the best example.”

Hagrid narrowed his eyes at him. “Why’d yeh stick ‘im with me?” 

“Because you’re the only one that might be gentle with him. McGonagall would be too stern and Dumbledore… well, Draco wouldn’t trust him. But I think you could look past all that bluster, after all, you’ve got a soft spot for animals that have a bad reputation. Maybe you could show him that. Teach him how to care for something other than himself.” 

“Las’ time he cared fer an animal, he near got ‘im executed.”

Bill sighed. “Hagrid, if you don’t find something at all redeemable about him, I will do all of your grade for the rest of the year.”

Hagrid paused. “Yer serious ‘bout him.”

“Absolutely.”

Hagrid huffed a breath out of his nose. “Well, alrigh’ then.”

“Thank you,” Bill said. He got up to leave, but paused. “Just… what I told you about him, that’s in confidence. It’s probably best not to tell him I said anything.”

Hagrid nodded. “I won’ say nothin’.”

“I appreciate it.” 

Bill left Hagrid’s hut, feeling a little better about the whole thing. Now he just had to find those homework pages. He had a funny feeling a certain poltergeist might have been involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter took a while. It was fighting me, lol. As always, this is a repost of a story that is currently being revamped over on FFN. If you're curious about the process of editing, feel free to go there to read my notes. If you liked the chapter, please leave a review! Thanks!


	14. Rule 11: Always maintain reputations

_Rule number eleven: Always maintain reputations, unless you can afford to lose them._

Draco frowned as the door shut after Bill, completely flummoxed and not enjoying the feeling. The professor had corrected him and praised him, defended him and challenged him, given him detention and a Christmas gift, all in a matter of minutes. And through it all, Bill had been calm. He hadn’t been defensive or frustrated or dismissive. He’d been patient. Kind. 

Draco looked down at the box in his hands. Bill had gotten him a gift. Bill, the Ancient Runes Professor, a Weasley and an Order spy, a Gryffindor do-gooder, had gotten _him_ a gift.

Gifts were common in Pureblood society. They were used as bribes, or to show favor, or to signal alliances. Gifts were also a devious way to force someone into debt. If a society member received an expensive gift in a public setting, they would be pressured to reciprocate. Even if they couldn’t really afford it. Lucius had done that to his political enemies on a few separate occasions. Give a society member an expensive enough gift, and they’d be pressured to reciprocate. But Draco knew, with an assurance he’d rarely felt before, that Bill was not expecting anything back. If Draco didn’t get him a gift, Bill would come back to Hogwarts after the holiday and they’d pick up right where they left off, translating the runes. And Bill wouldn’t be mad, or disappointed, or insulted. In fact, Draco was pretty sure that Bill wasn’t expecting a gift in return. 

Draco would still get him one, of course. He had manners. There was etiquette to follow. He’d sneak into Hogsmeade and buy him something – a box of imported chocolates, perhaps. A standard gift to give to a work colleague. That’s what Lucius did. 

Draco suddenly realized that his face felt hot. Not because he was blushing or angry, but because he’d been smiling, stupidly, for the past several minutes, just staring at the box in his hands. The realization was enough to turn the grin into a scowl. He’d received gifts before. He didn’t need to be an idiot about it. He started to put the box into his school bag. It wasn’t Christmas yet, and gifts were supposed to be opened at Christmas.

But his hand tightened around the package. Curiosity itched at his fingers. What was it? Bill had seemed pleased to give him the gift, suggesting that he thought it was something he would like. What would Bill consider as a good gift for a Malfoy? He wanted to open it now and find out. He warred with himself for a moment before his brain seized upon an excuse. If he opened it now, he would know what sort of gift to give in return. Chocolate was the stand-by, but if the gift was expensive, he may send along a bottle of wine as well. 

The rationalization was acceptable. Draco opened the gift, sliding his finger underneath the tape and pulling it away. The paper ripped in his haste. Underneath it was a plain, flat box. Draco pulled off the top with an emotion that might have reached excitement. Inside was an ivory charm, cut in a rectangular shape, about three inches long and an inch wide. It was engraved with the hammer and shield symbol of the Third Norse Reign, a particularly prosperous time for wizards of the era. Draco picked up the charm, seeing that a small hole had been bored through the top, and the charm hung from a simple leather cord. Draco turned the charm over and saw another engraving, this one an ancient Norse glyph. He recognized it immediately; it was the glyph for ‘_deceiver_’. 

Wizarding Norsemen in that day had a great obsession with titles. Not just for nobility, but for all wizards and witches. Talented magic users fought to earn the title of ‘the Great’ or ‘the Wise’. Philanthropists and healers were named ‘the Kind’ or ‘the Gentle’. Beautiful wizards and witches were called ‘the Fair’ or ‘the Blessed’. Those who were unlawful, spiteful, or selfish could earn titles such as ‘the Black-Hearted’ or ‘the Cruel’ or, in extreme cases, ‘the Demon’. 

‘Deceiver’, in ancient Norse, wasn’t necessarily a bad title. Often times, deceivers were thought to be agents of nature or chaos. Their escapades could be daring or comedic, full of mischief and trickery. They might be roguish and self-serving, but they were never cruel. In fact, many of them were thought to be blessed by the Trickster gods and spirits. 

Once a wizard or witch earned their title, they would create charms like this and wear them as a mark of pride. Draco could tell that this particular charm was probably worn as an everyday ornament. Ivory like this wasn’t rare. Plenty of magical creatures of that era had tusks, meaning it wasn’t an expensive or rare piece. Charms worn for special occasions would be made of gold or silver or inlaid with jewels. Many of those charms were passed down the generations. The daily charms, carved from wood or ivory, would have been buried with the person, and recently uncovered in archaeological digs. Such excavations often hired curse-breakers to get past the old wards. As part of the curse-breaking team, Bill would be entitled to an item uncovered in the site. It couldn’t be anything of historical import, and usually had to be worth less than ten gold, but curse-breakers were proud of the items they collected. Some spent decades curating their own personal museums. Draco knew this charm had likely come from Bill’s own collection. 

And, as he ran his finger of the glyph, he remembered their conversation when Bill had called him that, a “true deceiver”. This wasn’t just a historical gift; it was personal. The last person to give him such a meaningful gift had been Lukas. 

Draco sucked in a quick breath at the memory of his brother, bracing for the grief that was sure to follow. He waited a moment. No pain came. Instead, he could see his brother’s face, could see his smile, and it made something warm soothe in his chest. 

Draco slipped the necklace over his head. The charm came to rest just underneath his shirt collar. His fingers slid over the grooves and he smirked when he realized that the ‘deceiver’ side was facing out. He left the room, his brain already trying to figure out what to get Bill in return. Chocolates and wine were not going to be enough. 

But a rare book, perhaps a first edition, would do nicely.

* * *

Saturday morning was busy with the throng of students making their way down to the train to return home for the holiday. Draco slipped out with the exodus, a few camouflaging charms layered over a plain black coat and hat to help him fade into the crowd. Once at the station, he broke away and lost himself in the bustle of Hogsmeade. He wandered the streets for a while, enjoying the anonymity that came with the spells and the general chaos of the holiday season. The stores were decorated with boughs of pine and wreaths of lights. Large holiday trees were dispersed throughout the village, standing in every available corner and square. They were covered in glittering ornaments and dancing lights. Draco enjoyed the spectacle, even though a part of him scoffed at the display. 

He paused by a shoe store because a pair of heels in the display window that made him think of Pansy. They were dangerously tall, as black as ink, and a golden snake was twined up the stiletto heel. Draco stopped in and purchased a pair in Pansy’s size. He really did owe her for the past few months. He hoped this might reduce his debt. 

He stopped at a few other store windows and considered making other purchases, but apart from Bill, he had no other gifts to buy. He had a standing order at Renna’s Lotions and Tonics for Narcissa for Christmas. They delivered elegant baskets of skin lotions, bath powders, scrubs, and soaps. Lucius would, as usual, get a tasting set of expensive whiskeys from Esper and Sons. Draco considered buying a few things for himself. There was a quill-and-ink set, done in shades of silver and cobalt, that caught his eyes, and a long wool coat with a dashing set of buttons across the chest. But he’d never been good at buying things for himself. At the beginning of the schoolyear, he had a reason to shop for a new wardrobe and an excuse to buy a nice quill set. It was hard to justify anything outside of that, even though he had the funds for it. There was something about buying his own gifts that seemed to suck the pleasure out of it. 

Draco reached up and touched the ivory charm still hanging around his neck. He didn’t need to get himself anything this year. He’d already gotten a gift, a real one. 

He spotted the bookstore up ahead. It was small shop, nothing quite like the offerings in Diagon Alley, but it would suffice. There was a small holiday display in the window, but it wasn’t themed for Christmas. The Yule log, candles, and carefully chosen greenery was reflective of the Solstice. Draco was familiar with those rites, although they’d fallen out of practice in recent generations. Lucius’ family had celebrated it, and Draco remembered the traditions: candles left burning through the night to ward away the evil spirits, incense in the brazier to fortify the soul during the long night, and then as the sun rose, the doors and windows were opened, and they would sing _Aurora_ to welcome the dawn. 

Draco entered the store, setting off the bell over the door. The shop smelled of dust, old parchment, and rosemary. He glanced through the signage, ignoring the shelves that held more recent titles. There was a corner shelf labeled ‘Runic Originals’ that caught his eye. A few compendiums seemed promising, and there was one book on Ancient Germanic Poetry that made his lips twitch in amusement. The old Germanic Runes were anything _but_ poetic. He figured Bill would like the joke, but the levity would minimize the gift Bill had given him. 

His gaze skipped to a collection of books bound together with a golden rope. There were five books total, and they were old, at least a hundred years, but still in good condition. Their covers were made of polished wood and gold overlay. Draco peeked inside. They were ancient fairytales writing in their native runic language. Draco looked for an author, but there was none. The books had mostly likely been a passion project by an unnamed witch or wizard. The painted pictures that accompanied them were pretty, but the artist appeared to have been an amateur with no formal training. 

Draco could read three of the books, recognized the fourth, and had no clue about the fifth. He wondered if it was even translated yet. If it wasn’t, he knew Bill would enjoy the challenge. He took the books up to the counter and rang the bell. A woman appeared from the door behind the counter. She was old, that much was evident from her long silver hair and wrinkled tan skin, but she moved with the grace of a woman forty years younger.

“D’ye wish to purchase them, or merely ask what they say?” she asked in a light accent.

“Purchase them,” said Draco, “I know what they say.”

“D’ye now?” she asked, running an appraising eye over him. “And how’s that?”

“I study,” Draco said shortly, and set a stack of galleons down on the counter. 

“I meant no offense,” said the woman, laughing in a musical way. “If they’re to be a gift, I can have them delivered to arrive Christmas Day.”

Draco nodded and handed the books over. 

“Write the name here,” said the woman, sliding over a piece of parchment. “And add any message ye’d like to include.”

Draco filled out the form and passed it back. 

“Thankee,” the woman said.

Draco gave her a curt nod before exiting the shop. He stayed out a while longer, treating himself to lunch at the Three Broomsticks before heading back into school by way of the backdoor into the dungeons. He was quite pleased with the purchase, feeling it was a fair return on Bill’s gift him. 

The pleased feeling lasted well into the next day, only fading when he trudged down to Hagrid’s hut for detention. The half-giant was waiting for him at the animal pens, and Draco immediately knew that Bill had said something to him. Hagrid’s posture was all wrong. His arms should have been crossed over his chest. His face should have been tight with ill-disguised anger. His words should have been hard and cold. Instead, Hagrid was leaning against the fence, his arms loose at his sides. His expression was calm. His words, when spoke, were gentle, soft, the way he spoke to his animals when they were flustered. 

“’Lo, Malfoy. Doin’ alright?”

Draco had worked hard to cultivate an antagonistic relationship with the professors at Hogwarts. It was how he maintained his privacy. After the incident with Buckbeak, which wasn’t _entirely_ his fault, he’d thought a hostile relationship with Hagrid was set for the rest of his school career. So there was no reason for Hagrid to be so gentle right now. Not unless someone had interfered with his work.

Draco felt a surge of anger. No doubt Bill had meant it kindly, no doubt he was hoping that Draco could make friends with more people in the Order, but he had no right to break Draco’s confidence. No right to share tidbits of Draco’s life to try to curry favor and pity from people Draco had no interest in befriending. The anger burned up his chest and caught in his throat. He couldn’t manage a response to Hagrid. It felt like he was choking. 

Hagrid didn’t seem to notice. He jerked his thumb behind him. “We’ll jus’ be cleanin’ out the shed today.”

Draco knew that the small shack behind Hagrid’s hut was a storage space for the tools he needed for animal care and groundskeeping. Draco followed him in and cast a reluctant eye about the place. There appeared to be no organization to it. The tillers and plows for landscaping were intermingled with the ropes and harnesses for the thestrals. Some tools had been hung on hooks on the walls, others were stacked by the door, others were placed haphazardly on the shelves. There was a large, dusty cabinet in the back of the room. Draco opened it to find a collection of potions bottles, liniment tubs, and ointment tubes, along with a few splints, wraps, and other veterinarian supplies. Some of the potions weren’t labelled. Others appeared half-congealed. Draco felt his nose wrinkle. He knew where he was starting.

He supposed, as he picked through the medical cabinet, tossing out anything expired or moldy, that it was preferable to trampling through the woods or cleaning out the thestral stables. And he had a feeling that whatever pity Bill had made Hagrid feel towards him was responsible for it. That didn’t make his anger fade. If anything, it grew, because Draco didn’t need his full attention to toss old potions. He had plenty of time to ruminate over Bill’s betrayal.

What had Bill told Hagrid? Had he just asked Hagrid to be nice to him? Draco doubted that would be enough to change Hagrid’s behavior. The groundskeeper well and truly hated him. Bill must have shared something else. It was bad enough that Bill knew more about Draco than he should. And bad enough that Pomfrey had learned of Narcissa’s potions addiction. Now Hagrid knew something too? Draco felt uncomfortably exposed, and it was the worst possible time for it. The Dark Lord was gaining power. Slytherin house was on verge of revolt. Draco’s own loyalties would be tested at the end of the year with his pledge.

Draco restacked the supplies that were still viable, arranging them by use, and vanished the rest. He summoned a quill and parchment and jotted down a list of the potions that would been to be replaced. It was just about time to leave by then so he found Hagrid, mending a length of fence, and handed the list over.

“Yeh did good work t’day,” Hagrid said.

Draco felt his jaw clench at the praise. He turned to leave, but whipped back around. He couldn’t let this stand. He needed to earn Hagrid’s bad opinion back.

Rule number eleven: Always maintain reputations, unless you can afford to lose them.

“What did Bill tell you?” he demanded.

Hagrid’s eyes widened, meaning Draco was right. The half-giant shook his head, a denial starting to spill from his lips, but Draco spoke over him.

“I know he told you something. Did he try to make you feel sorry for me?”

“Bill didn’t –,”

“Oh, come off it,” Draco sneered. “There’s no other reason for you to tolerate my presence. So, what lie did he tell you? Did he say something about my parents? Did he make you think I’m not safe at home, or I’m mistreated?” He let out a cold laugh. “You can’t tell me you actually fell for it. Then again, if anyone were to fall for such a stupid story, it would be you.”

Hagrid’s face creased, the calm beginning to slip away. 

Draco grinned, sharp and satisfied. “He’s a good professor. I won’t deny that. He’s been tutoring me after class, and I’ve been sure to be on my best behavior, just to give him a good impression. I admit, it’s been funny, to make him think so well of me while his siblings can’t stand me. I imagine they’re fighting over it now, ruining their holidays.”

Hagrid’s face creased further. He was getting angry. Draco just needed to push it a little further.

“But you know Bill’s failing. He’s too nice. Too gullible. He’ll believe the best of anyone.” Draco laughed again and saw the way Hagrid’s large hands curled into fists. “He’s a sap, too easily fooled. He didn’t even realize I was playing him.”

Hagrid blinked. Once, then twice. The anger that had been building dropped away. His shoulders slumped; his hands relaxed. Draco felt a rush of confusion as Hagrid’s mouth slid into a small smile. 

“Bill’s mighty good-hearted,” he said slowly, “but ‘e’s no fool.” 

_Merde_. Draco scowled, realizing he’d pushed too far. But there was a way to save it. He just needed to – 

Hagrid continued, before he had time to recover. “An’ yer a baby occamy.”

“What?” Draco all but snarled, feeling his face heat up at what could only be an insult. 

Hagrid’s smile grew even wider. “Yer all puffed up right now, tryin’ t’ seem vicious and tryin’ t’ push people away. Isn’ that right?”

The anger froze into fear. Draco swallowed hard. “We’re done here.” 

He said it calmly, coldly, but it was all he could do to keep his voice from shaking. He stalked towards the castle, his body thrumming with panic. How had more damage to his disguise occurred in these past four months than in the past five years? 

He took refuge into the Slytherin rooms. He was the only one from his house staying over the break, so there was no need to hide his distress. He dropped onto a window seat and stared out at the Great Lake, trying desperately to pinpoint where this year had gone so wrong. 

It went back to Bill, every time. He should have never gotten him a Christmas present.

He dreaded returning to detention the next day. He thought about faking an illness or injury, but Pomfrey was good at spotting those. He thought about deliberately injuring himself, nothing major, just a minor slicing or burning hex, but he didn’t want to risk any more attention from her. He thought about forging a letter from his mother, claiming that she had returned home and was desperate to see her son for the holiday. He’d be able to go home and escape detention that way. But his mother actually was at home, and she was throwing one of her parties, and there was no way Draco wanted to experience any of that again. He could always hole up in a fancy hotel for the holiday, but part of him rebelled against the idea. He wasn’t going to run away from his problems. He was a Malfoy. He’d face them head on and then find a way to cheat. 

He pulled on his winter gear after lunch and marched back down to Hagrid’s hut. The groundskeeper was waiting for him at the shack. Draco stopped a few feet away, hands shoved into his coat pockets. He met Hagrid’s gaze with a defiant glare. 

“Bill jus’ said you didn’ have anyone t’ go home t’ fer the holidays,” Hagrid said.

Draco stiffened. Hagrid gave a shrug of his large shoulders. 

“He said that you and yer mom don’ get along. That she wouldn’ spend the holidays with you even tho’ there’s no other family fer you. I s’pose that’s somethin’ I coulda figured out on me own if I’d jus’ thought o’ bit harder on it. But I didn’t. Not ‘til Bill said it like that. So you don’ need t’ be mad at ‘im. He didn’ say nuthin’ that was private.” 

Draco looked away, not liking the sympathy in the half-giant’s eyes. But he felt something inside of him ease as well. Bill hadn’t said anything incriminating. And Hagrid was right. It was a conclusion that any one of the faculty could arrive at, if they only cared to think about him. Which was why his bad reputation was so important.

Hagrid pushed himself off the fence. “Well, we still got work t’ do in the shed.” 

Draco followed him inside and set to work fixing shelves, detangling harnesses, and charming away several nests of spiders that had taken residence in the corners. Hagrid kept him company, spending his time checking over the larger equipment, but he didn’t speak. Draco preferred the silence. 

* * *

The Weasley family was Christmas-ing at Grimmauld Place this year, along with Harry and a few other members of the Order. It was deemed safer that the Burrow, even though Voldemort appeared to be more focused on the continent and less on England at the moment. Bill would have preferred to holiday at home. There was a time when he’d felt too old for it, when he was fresh out of Hogwarts and had just started his career, and he felt too mature, too adult, to sleep in his old room and be coddled by his mother. Now, as he dropped his things off in one of the guest rooms, he longed for home. If he were in the warmth and comfort of the Burrow, he might be able to forget there was a war on. He might be able to relax. He might be able to shake the tingle of anxiety that had followed him ever since he left Hogwarts. 

But while Grimmauld Place may not be the Burrow, his mother had tried to make it as cheerful as possible. Christmas wreaths were hung on every door. Boughs of pine were wrapped over the staircase railings and hung in drapes across the walls. Sparkling candles were placed in the windows. Silver bells tinkled over every doorway, accompanied with sprigs of mistletoe. Fred and George had spelled a few to dump snow on anyone who passed underneath, which was how Bill was greeted when he walked into the kitchen. The twins burst into laughter, and Bill did as well, shaking the snow from his hair and out from under his shirt. 

“Fred! George! I told you to take those down,” Molly scolded, but she was smiling while she did. She stepped away from the stove to greet him with a hug and a kiss and a string of inquiries. “How have you been, dear? I can tell you lost weight. Aren’t they feeding you at Hogwarts? Here, have a seat, I’ll get you something. How was your trip?”

“Mum,” Bill protested, but she gave him a little push, so he sat down at the table. His father was already there, newspaper in hand and a cup of tea in front of him. He greeted Bill with a nod and knowing, patient smile. Bill knew his dad liked having all the kids at home because it gave Molly somewhere else to focus her attention.

It only took his mother a few minutes to whip up two platters of finger sandwiches and a plate of scones, and then she set the kettle on. Ron and Ginny appeared, as if summoned by the food. 

Arthur put the paper aside and accepted another cup of tea. “How’s teaching?” he asked Bill.

“It’s great,” Bill said. “The grading can pile up at times, but overall, I really like it.”

“Students aren’t driving you insane?” Arthur asked.

Bill shook his head. “No, they’re good kids.”

“Not all of them, surely.”

Ron cut in before Bill could respond. “He’s giving extra classes to _Draco Malfoy_.”

He said it like he was accusing Bill of a crime, although in their father’s eyes, it might have well been. Arthur immediately scowled.

Bill resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I am tutoring a student who is behind in my class.” He set Ron a severe look, wondering if his brother really wanted to push him when he’d just stopped him from brawling in the hall the other day. He could see from Ron’s face that he was still sore about it. Ron clearly thought that Bill should have been defending him, not Draco, even when the fight had been two against one. 

Ron looked down at his tea, not wanting to risk that particular story making it to Molly’s ears. It was the smart choice. Not even their father’s hatred of the Malfoys would keep Molly from grounding him for fighting. 

The conversation was thankfully steered away from any arguments by the arrival of Charlie, who stepped out of the Floo with an armful of presents and an impressive burn down the side of his face. It sent Molly into near hysterics. The younger kids took the opportunity to steal a few sandwiches and scurry out of the kitchen while Charlie was sat down in a chair and poked and prodded and slathered with various burn ointments. 

Charlie bore it all with a cheerful equanimity that Bill envied, but he figured that Charlie handled far more stressful situations at his job than the inquisition their mother thrust upon him. He answered every question patiently.

No, this injury did not mean he needed to leave his job. Yes, it had been tended to. No, it was not anyone else’s fault, he had simply pushed a little too far. No, the dragon in question had not been put down, removed, or exiled. Yes, Charlie was in agreement with that decision. No, Molly didn’t need to write to anyone. Yes, the safety measures were adequate.

Molly frowned, clearly not satisfied, but she left to pour him a cup of tea.

“Rhiannon’s pregnant,” Charlie informed Bill and Arthur, the only two left at the table. Bill knew that to be one of the dragons at the sanctuary, but he couldn’t remember which one. “She’ll be laying her eggs in a month or so. We didn’t realize that, because no one’s ever seen a pregnant Welsh bronze before. I was doing my usual rounds and didn’t realize she was getting territorial until – well…,” he gestured to his face. “Honestly, it was a very short burst of flame, just enough to singe and not catch anything on fire, which was quite nice of her. But we’ve always got on, me and Rhiannon.”

“Don’t suppose there’s a human girl you’ve been getting on with,” Arthur said, raising his eyebrows. “You know Molly wants grandkids someday, and we’re not getting any younger.”

“Merlin’s balls,” Charlie swore, in mock exasperation. “You’ve still got kids in the house. Besides, Bill hasn’t even –,”

Bill quickly kicked Charlie under the table and shook his head. Charlie stopped and tipped his head to the side in question.

“Bill hasn’t even what?” Arthur asked, frowning between them.

“Well, I just wouldn’t want to show him up,” Charlie said. “Goodness knows he’s the best looking of us, and the smartest, and he still isn’t hitched, so clearly there’s something defective about him.”

Bill laughed. Molly flicked Charlie’s undamaged ear as she came back with a cup of tea. “None of that now. It’s Christmas.”

Charlie finished his tea and then Bill helped him spell his things upstairs to the guest room they’d be sharing. The house had been magically expanded, but more Order members would be stopping over through the holiday break and the guests rooms were in short supply. Charlie dropped his things on his bed and turned to him.

“I thought you were proposing to Fleur.”

Bill quickly shut the door. “I am. I just… there’s still stuff to be done.”

“Like what?”

Bill turned to his suitcase and rummaged around for the catalog he’d been pouring over for the past few weeks whenever he’d had a spare moment. 

“Here,” he said, showing the rings to Charlie. “I can’t decide.”

Charlie hummed and glanced through the pictures Bill had marked. He let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of gold to drop on a piece of jewelry.”

“I’ve been saving,” Bill admitted. He dropped onto his bed and shrugged. “And, I know it sounds cliché, but she’s worth it.”

Charlie laughed. “That is a cliché, but I’m happy for you nonetheless. Here, this one.”

He pointed to the ring that Bill always returned to, a white gold band set with an oval moonstone that seemed to glow with ethereal light. Tiny diamonds framed the stone. It reminded Bill of Fleur. It captured her style, a seamless balance of vintage and modern, sophistication and beauty. 

“It’s my favorite too,” Bill admitted. “But do you think I’d be letting her down if it weren’t a diamond? I mean, it’s not traditional by any means.”

“Traditions are only good as long as people enjoy them,” Charlie said.

Bill frowned. “When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been,” Charlie said sagely. “You’ve only now begun to realize.”

Bill threw his pillow at him. 

* * *

Dinner that night was the chaos that only a Weasley family dinner could reach. Molly couldn’t stay in her seat, already baking for Christmas, and was constantly jumping from her chair to check on the pies in the oven. She’d return with yet another dish in hand. She chided anyone she felt wasn’t eating enough, and scolded Fred and George for tampering with cutlery. They were experimenting with a vanishing spell, something about a ‘disappearing spoon’ that could vanish an unappetizing meal off of a plate. But the spell work hadn’t been perfected, and so bits of their meal kept appearing about the table, sometimes on someone else’s plate or in someone’s cup, sometimes dropping into the table itself. Harry, Ron, and Charlie were competing to tell the most epic Quidditch match at Hogwarts, and were getting quite animated. Arthur had co-opted Bill and Ginny into a discussion about magical regulations on Muggle inventions. With all the noise and clamor, Bill didn’t realize the family was short one member until the dinner dishes were cleared to make room for the treacle tart Molly brought out. As soon as he realized it, he felt a flush of guilt.

“Where’s Percy?” he asked. “I thought we were all supposed to be here?”

Fred and George rolled their eyes. Their reaction wasn’t surprising. Bill knew that Percy and the twins had the worst relationship of all the siblings. The twins were mischief incarnate, and Percy was the embodiment of order. Bill remembered breaking up countless fights between the three. Percy was older by two years, and often tried to step in as the authority figure when their parents weren’t around. The twins naturally rebelled against any form of control and pranked him relentlessly for overstepping his role. 

“Working, poor thing,” Molly said. “He’s been kept so busy this past year.”

“Not that the Ministry’s done anything useful,” Arthur muttered, refilling his water glass. 

There were a few snorts from around the table. 

Bill frowned. “I wouldn’t think a junior assistant would need to put in holiday hours.”

Charlie turned to him, surprise on his face. “Perce isn’t a junior assistant anymore.”

“What?”

“He Flooed home to tell us.” Charlie swiveled his head around to their parents. “When I was visiting last spring. He told us he was getting promoted.” 

There was a hard note in his voice, not obvious, but Bill had been working as a spy for the past few months. He’d learned to pick up on the subtle changes in inflection, learned to catch the unspoken words that passed through a dark look or a careless shrug. Charlie was upset with their parents and feeling defensive for Percy. That wasn’t entirely new. Just as Percy and the twins had the worst relationship, Percy and Charlie had always had some special understanding. Charlie was always Percy’s defender, a quintessential big brother in that regard. But what was new was the seriousness in Charlie’s eyes, and the set expression on his face. Bill wasn’t used to seeing him that serious. Charlie was the peacemaker of the family, but his mediation was usually done gently, with a smile or a joke or a light-hearted distraction. He only got serious when he thought someone had deliberately harmed another family member.

Bill looked over at their parents, sure that Charlie was over-reacting in some way. But Arthur – his face was tight, jaw clenched. And Molly glanced away, a clear signal she felt some guilt.

“Percy said there was a chance he might be promoted,” she said delicately.

“He said that the promotion was all but finalized. That there was just a waiting period for the papers to be signed,” Charlie countered.

There was a specific way that news traveled in the Weasley family. If something good had happened, the proper channel of communication was to Floo home and tell mum and dad. Mum would then write about it to the rest of the kids. If something bad had happened, it was best to call another sibling to resolve the issue before mum and dad ever heard of it. If Percy had called home to share good news, the rest of the family should have been filled in by now. 

“When was this?” Bill asked.

“Last May,” Charlie said, a note of reprobation in his voice. “It was announced in the paper.”

Bill felt his eyebrows jump in surprise. Anytime a family member made it into the paper, Molly was sure to cut it out, frame it, and hang it up in the den. Bill had two articles on the wall, one was a small article about the Head Boy and Girl of Hogwarts, and the other was about his team breaking the Ramses tomb. Charlie had an article about his group’s efforts to preserve land for dragon habitats. Fred and George had a series of articles about their joke shop. If Percy had made the paper, he should have a place on the wall. Bloody hell, Molly should have sent a snipping to the rest of the kids. Bill didn’t understand why it hadn’t happened this time. 

Arthur sniffed. “It doesn’t seem right to be celebrating the government at this time, not when they’re enabling Death Eaters.”

“Percy’s hardly enabling Death Eaters,” Charlie said. “He’s a stickler for law and order, yes, but he also ensures that the rules are fair. Don’t you remember how he wrote into the school board when a few kids in his class didn’t pass their OWLs because of a few poorly-worded questions? He didn’t have to do that. He’d gotten an Outstanding.”

Arthur sat back in his chair, clearly unconvinced. Bill felt torn himself. Percy liked following the rules almost as much as he liked enforcing them, and the current Ministry was not playing fair. Just last year, Harry had been brought in front of the Wizengamot just for defending himself against a Dementor. According to Arthur and Molly, Percy had been present and done nothing for Harry’s defense. Was that Percy ensuring that the rules were fair? And even if he did attempt to change the system, how much good could he really do? He was just a few years out of Hogwarts.

“What’s the promotion?” Bill asked. 

“Senior Assistant to the Secretary,” Charlie said.

Bill dropped his fork in surprise. “You’re joking.”

Charlie shook his head. “Nope.”

There were two branches of employees in the Minister’s office. One branch was of elected officials, like the Minister himself. The second branch, the Assistants, was made up of non-elected employees. While these roles were typically administrative in nature, these wizards and witches would be called upon to step into the role of their elected counterpart should the position suddenly fall empty. The assistants were non-partisan employees that could complete the necessary day-to-day activities of their offices while an election was held. It was vital part of the Ministry, because elections had been known to drag out for weeks, sometimes months. The Minister of Magic had one such Assistant, and underneath that Assistant was the Secretary. And underneath the Secretary, was the Senior Assistant. Percy, their brother, was arguably the fourth most senior position in the Ministry. 

“What’s this?” Ron asked, poking up from his end of the table.

“Percy’s Senior Assistant to the Secretary,” Bill said.

It was an impressive title. Bill watched his siblings respond justly, although Fred and George did joke about him being even more insufferable now. But they didn’t appear to have the same judgment of their parents. 

He turned to Charlie. “I didn’t get him anything. Did you?”

“Sent over a bottle of wine. A nice one.” Charlie sighed a little. “He thought you all knew.”

Bill reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Of course Percy would think that his siblings knew about his promotion and deliberately snubbed him rather than informing them all himself.  
But, then again, perhaps it was unfair to blame Percy. He wouldn’t have known how the family communication had broken down.

Bill glanced about the table. Now that he was aware of one problem in the family, it was easier to spot the other cracks forming. Ron was closer to Harry than any of his siblings. Fred and George were lost in their own little world together, only stepping outside of themselves to prank their family. Charlie was still looking frosty towards their parents and Arthur was getting a stubborn look on his face that said he wasn’t going to apologize. Molly tried to cover it all with excessive mothering. 

When had their family gotten so complicated? Was this a normal part of family development, or was it the war, changing them all, making them harder and less patient? Or, part of him wondered, had it always been this way, and he just didn’t see it, too caught up in his own life? Hogwarts had always been his escape – a way to shirk the responsibility of playing older brother to six siblings. And not just older brother, but sometimes stand-in parent, or housemaid, or cook. He had begun to resent it in his teenaged years, and when he’d graduated, he’d taken a job that let him keep his distance. But in doing so, had he abandoned his siblings? Had he contributed to this mess by his absence. 

The thought horrified him, and he glanced about the table, wondering if anyone else was picking up on the tension he was only just seeing. His eyes landed on Ginny, Ginny who was leaning on the table, no longer talking – just watching and observing. Bill was startled at her lack of concern, until he realized that she would have seen all of this develop. She had a front row seat to the way her siblings were growing up in so many different directions. She was used to the dissent while he was taken aback. 

Ginny caught his gaze and seemed to read his distress. She sat up a little straighter and her eyes sparkled with a bit of mischief. _I got this_, her expression said. She opened her mouth. 

“Bill’s looking at rings for Fleur,” she announced loudly. 

Bill’s mouth dropped open in shock and betrayal. The entire table rounded on him as Ginny pulled an Extendable Ear out of her pocket and waved it at him tauntingly. And just like that, they were a family again, bombarding with questions. He was proposing? Why hadn’t he told anyone? When was he going to pop the question? Didn’t he want to use one of the family’s rings?

* * *

Bill found he couldn’t sleep that night – his head was too busy. He thought of Percy and Arthur and the rest of the family. He thought of Fleur and wondered if he might be able to sneak away to spend a few days with her. He thought of the invisible mark on his arm and whether or not he’d be called to a Death Eater meeting over the break. He thought of Snape and Dumbledore. He thought of Draco and wondered if he’d opened the present and if he’d liked it. He wondered how long it would take him to fall asleep and if he could sleep in the next morning to make up for it.

He finally got sick of wondering and headed downstairs, intent on making a cup of chamomile tea, or maybe some warm milk with honey. If that didn’t work, he was taking a sleeping draught.

He was surprised to see a light on in the kitchen, and further surprised to see Harry Potter sitting at the table, his own cup of tea in front of him. He was staring at the cup, but his eyes were unfocused. Bill was momentarily diverted from his own anxieties. He slid into a chair across from Harry, taking in the dark circles beneath the teen’s eyes and the way his shoulders were hunched.

Bill had gotten to know Harry a little bit more since he’d been at Hogwarts. Not a lot more, because Harry wasn’t in his class, but Ron would stop by his office at times and bring Harry with him. Bill wondered why the universe kept putting troubled teenagers in his path. Was it penance for breaking from his own family? Or was it because the universe thought he might be able to help?

He didn’t say anything, just kept quiet, and tried not to compare Harry with Draco, although it was hard not to. Draco kept his emotions expertly hidden. Harry’s were all too readable. The tension in his shoulders, the slack in his face, the haunted look in his eyes. Bill waited, wondering if Harry even wanted to talk. He wouldn’t force it if he’d rather stay quiet. It took a few moments, but then Harry broke the silence.

“It feels wrong without him here.”

Bill knew immediately he was referring to Sirius. “Empty,” he agreed.

Harry shifted and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s so quiet. And it… it feels like it’s laughing at me.”

“Why would it be laughing at you?”

Harry paused for another moment. Then he licked his lips. “Because it was my fault. If I hadn’t…,”

“Hadn’t what?” Bill asked gently.

“If I hadn’t run out on Snape, if I had actually learned Occlumency, if I hadn’t gone to the Ministry, then Sirius would still be here.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I could have prevented all of this.”

“Harry, you’re just a kid,” Bill started, but Harry cut him off with a mirthless laugh that was scarily reminiscent of Draco’s.

“Just a kid,” Harry repeated, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Everyone expects me to be some kind of superhero and destroy Voldemort, but I’m also ‘just a kid’.”

“We’re not expecting you to be perfect,” Bill said. “We’re not expecting you to fight Voldemort alone. Merlin’s beard, we’re trying all we can to take him out so you don’t have to, because yes, you are a kid. And it’s unfair to put these expectations on you.” 

He watched Harry’s shoulders shrug, just a little. He leaned in.

“But I can’t help but notice that you’re the only one here right now, in the middle of the night, beating yourself up over mistakes that weren’t really your own.”

Harry’s head snapped up, ready to argue, so Bill held out a hand, forestalling him.

“A lot of people were at the Ministry, Harry. A lot of _adults_ were a part of that battle, and they made mistakes too. This is not on you. This is not your fault.”

Harry’s face started to fall, but he fought his tears, blinking hard and trying to swallow the grief down. 

Bill reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Sirius wouldn’t blame you.”

Harry crumpled, covering his face with his free hand as he cried. He cried silently, the way that someone learns to when their tears are met with punishment or ridicule. Bill stayed with him until his tears ran dry, feeling his own eyes prick in sympathy. Merlin, why did these kids have to see war?

Harry finally wiped at his face and met his gaze with a tremulous smile. Bill had comforted enough of his siblings to know what that look meant. It meant the conversation was done and that was his cue to change the subject. Bill retrieved two bottles of butterbeer from the fridge and slid one across the table to Harry. 

“So, Ron’s been filling me in on your last year, but I have to ask, all that stuff about the pranks you pulled on Umbridge, is that true?”

He watched Harry’s smile turn into something more genuine. 

“Well,” said Harry, “Umbridge was this horrid, toad-faced woman…,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up. I have been crazy busy. I hope to get a break mid-December, so want to get back to regularly posting then. As always, this is an edited version of a story I have over on FFN where I edit my chapters and talk about what changes I made and why. Please leave a review!


	15. Rule 12: Never get blindsided by kindness

_Rule number twelve: Never get blindsided by kindness. Never. _

Draco supposed that holidaying at Hogwarts could have been worse. The decorations were pretty, almost charming, and the professors that stayed behind, all the Heads of Houses except Flitwick, he’d asked Claire Jameson to cover for him, seemed to be firmly in the holiday spirit. They gently enforced the curfew, rather than snapping about it, and when the students got a little too spirited, they only took off a point or two, just to remind the students that Hogwarts rules remained, even on the holidays. They were even nice to Draco, or rather, their smiles didn’t fade as much when they looked in his direction. They didn’t really interact with him, and Draco helped keep the peace by maintaining his distance. It was easy enough to hangout in the Slytherin Common Room, as he had it all to himself, and he only ventured to the upper floors when it was required of him, such as meals, which they all took together in the Great Hall. 

There was only a handful of students remaining over the holiday, a pair of Ravenclaw sisters, a quartet of Hufflepuffs, and a trio of Gryffindors. The Hufflepuffs were the safest to sit with, their families were middle-class enough not to have a pull in politics. The Ravenclaw sisters were clearly intimidated by him, and the Gryffindors showed their typical distaste in turned-up noses and obvious silences. That was fine with Draco. He only had to tolerate them over meals. There were other activities he could have engaged in. The professors were hosting various holiday-themed undertakings. Sprout was overseeing a tobogganing excision. Snape was supervising a Christmas baking competition in the kitchens. Jameson was holding a night of Christmas carols in the drama room, and McGonagall was taking the students on Hogsmeade outing. Draco declined each one. He had more pressing matters to attend to. Now that the castle had been nearly emptied, it was the perfect time to do some sleuthing. There was a horcrux on the premises; Draco wanted to find it.

He started with research. It was easy enough to sneak into the library and scour the shelves for anything to do with hocruxes, the creation of similar dark objects, and the school years of one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Because there were no other Slytherins about, and because Snape was leaving him alone, he set up several research stations across the common room. Horcruxes by the window seats, dark objects by the fireplace, and Tom’s history by the bookshelves. When one topic bored him, he simply shifted to the next. He also retrieved several blueprints of Hogwarts’ architecture, which he pinned to the window glass. If the horcrux was in the school, a methodical search might prove useful. All in all, it was a compelling research project, and the only thing that pulled him from his study were the required meals and detention with Hagrid.

He and the half-giant had settled into an easy sort of truce. Hagrid continued to be gentle in his interactions with Draco, making small talk or commenting on the process of caring for the grounds, and Draco responded with all the civility that Pureblood society expected of him. It was… not awful, and Draco found that the two-hour break each day, forced to venture outside and get some exercise, actually helped him. It gave his body a break from being curled up over books and maps. It gave his mind a break from swirling thoughts and racing deductions, and let his thoughts settle into something more constructive. And talking with Hagrid was sometimes the only conversation he had all day. 

Perhaps that was why Draco bundled up on the Christmas Eve and headed down to Hagrid’s hut. He didn’t think he’d actually have detention, but he’d hit a wall with his research, and he could use a distraction. He found Hagrid just setting out for the woods, bundled up with a pack across his back. 

Hagrid turned to him in some surprise. “’s Christmas Eve. Yeh don’ have ter be here.” 

Draco shrugged and nodded at his pack. “What are you doing today?”

“Settin’ ter check the woods an’ make sure no big predators are roamin’ about.” 

“I thought the wards kept the more dangerous animals out.”

“They’re pretty good, ‘cept when Death Eaters bring ‘em in.” Hagrid paused, like he just remembered who he was talking to, and then hurriedly continued on. “But wards are tricky in the forest. Too many livin’ things creates an energy that interferes with ‘em. Makes ‘em deteriorate faster.” 

Hagrid’s explanation was such an oversimplification of the warding process that Draco’s head panged. Hagrid continued before he could formulate a correction.

“If yer lookin’ fer company, I could always do with ‘nother set o’ eyes.” The half-giant gave him a smile, hefted his pack, and then set off without waiting for his response. 

The way he said it made it sound like Draco was lonesome. Draco scoffed. Him? Lonely? But Hagrid’s excursion could be a good chance to examine the wards around Hogwarts. 

He hurried to catch up with the groundskeeper. “To say that ‘life energy’ interferes with wards is a gross understatement of the magical equations involved in warding. It isn’t even close to accurate.”

“Eh?”

Draco launched into a lecture about setting wards and the challenges with difficult terrain. Most wards couldn’t be formed through a living object, exempli gratia, a tree, and therefore they needed a clear space to be set up. A forest as thick as the one around Hogwarts certainly made that a challenge. Warding also worked better on a smooth plane, that is a straight wall or a curve. The jagged, multiple planes of a ward in a forest meant it was easier for weak spots to emerge.

Hagrid was, to Draco’s surprise, a good listener. It was obvious he didn’t understand everything Draco talked about, specifically the issues with trigonometry, but he paid attention, even as his eyes swept through the forest looking for signs that Draco didn’t know to look for. 

“Yeh sure know a lot ‘bout wards,” he remarked finally.

“It’s the only thing Stevick will teach us in Defense,” Draco said, giving a weak excuse that he knew Hagrid wouldn’t question. 

Hagrid hummed thoughtfully. “I was never one fer book-learnin’ myself. Always needed ter get my hands on somethin’ to figure it out.” 

“It seems to serve you well in this environment.”

“Well, that it does.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothin’ as impressive as trigometrics, or whatever it is yeh said, but ‘ere, I’ll show you.”

Hagrid began pointing out signs of life in the woods – tracks of ground animals, like hares and squirrels, and the larger animals, foxes, deer, and the thestrals that were currently out roaming. They even came across tracks of the centaurs. Hagrid showed how they were grouped and spaced and deduced it to be a hunting party. Even when he knew what to look for, Draco had no success in spotting the tracks on his own. His mind was wired to find patterns in data he read in books, and to extrapolate from one theory to the next, but those skills didn’t carry over into the physical world. He was a little peeved at that fact. 

Hagrid stopped abruptly and knelt down by a tree, his eyes intent on something on the exposed roots. Draco’s curiosity piqued. He leaned in as well.

“Look ‘ere.” Hagrid gestured to a black substance near the base of the tree. He reached out and his fingers came away covered in a thick liquid. 

“Thestral blood,” said Draco, surprise causing him to speak out loud.

Hagrid turned to him. “’ow'd yeh know that?” 

“It appears to be black but when the light hits it, you can see that it's a dark red. Plus it has the consistency of tree sap.”

“Tha's right,’ said Hagrid. “Five points ter Slytherin.”

The large man got to his feet with little effort. “Wolves attacked our herd.”

Draco nodded. Hogwarts had the only _tame_ thestrals that came straight from the wild, while the Malfoys and many other Pureblood families owned domesticated animals, ones that had been bred for pedigree and shown in races and auctions, much like Muggle horses. The domesticated animals were easier to keep in stables. The tame ones needed to wander free, although it was more dangerous for them.

“One of ‘em clipped Midnight.” Hagrid gazed off into the forest, his eyes picking out details Draco couldn’t hope to recognize. “I stitched ‘er up, but she musta torn ‘em. Keep an eye out for more blood, or a depression in the snow, if you can’t ‘em.” 

Draco could see thestrals, but it wasn’t a fact he shared with anyone at Hogwarts. Hagrid moved off again and Draco followed. The groundskeeper took them through the woods, following a broken twig here or a smushed bush there. He was clearly an expert tracker. Draco was impressed. 

“There she is,” Hagrid called, suddenly loping off towards the right. Draco followed at a slower pace, finally spotting the horse-like creature on the ground by a pile of fallen branches. Hagrid knelt by the thestral, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he looked for the injury. He must have found it because the thestral shrieked, trying to rise off of its side and get away. Draco sprinted forward and dropped to his knees in front of the animal. He caught its face between his hands, knowing where to hold to avoid the snapping teeth.

“Whoa,” he said, pushing the thestral’s head down. “Hold, Midnight. Hold.” 

The thestral relaxed, but Draco knew it had more to do with Hagrid’s presence than his own. 

“Tore ‘er stitches alright,” Hagrid said, and then cursed. “Bleedin’ pretty bad.” He grabbed his pack and rummaged through it. “Where’s the bloody – ah, got it.” He pulled out a bottle of blue liquid that Draco recognized as an disinfectant. Hagrid unstoppered the bottle and doused a cloth with it. As soon as he pressed it to the wound, the animal bucked up. It was clearly not one of the tamer animals. It snapped at Draco’s fingers and kicked out with its legs. One hoof hit Hagrid in the shoulder, hard enough to rock the half-giant back. 

“Hold ‘er!” Hagrid yelled, as the thestral let out an ear-piercing whinny and jerked again, tearing its head from Draco's grasp and nearly getting to its feet with the aid of its wings.

Hagrid draped himself over the thestral’s body and Draco grabbed the head once more, forcing it into the floor. 

“I need ter start stitchin’, so hold tight,” Hagrid ground out.

Draco had not been riding thestrals since he was a boy for nothing. He pinned the thestral’s head to the ground with his knees and pulled out his wand. It was a simple matter to cast a slicing hex on his right palm. He pressed the bleeding cut to the thestral’s mouth, just as she was beginning to struggle again. He let her lick the wound a few times, and then pulled away as the thestral’s eyes went dark and glassy. Thestrals were attracted to blood, and fresh blood, straight from a vein, had a sedative-like quality to them. That was why they were once considered to be the mounts of vampires. 

He looked over to watch Hagrid expertly stitch the wound. He clearly had a way with animals. Draco wasn’t jealous, not exactly. He didn’t like having to care for things, even his plants in Herbology suffered from his neglect, although it was easy to pull his grades up with the written portions of tests. But to see someone whose care was natural, instinctual, made him feel somehow… lacking. He wasn’t used to feeling that way. It was hard to think of someone having an innate skill that he didn’t; it was hard to think that someone could be better than him without even trying. 

Midnight stirred a few more times, so Draco let the thestral lick his wound anytime she started getting restless. Hagrid finished the stitches, wiped the wound down with another swipe of the disinfectant, and then sat back. He looked over at Draco, and caught sight of his bleeding hand. 

“Didn’ know yeh knew 'ow ter take care of thestrals.” Hagrid began packing his supplies away. “Din' know yeh could see 'em neither.”

“We have some at the Manor,” Draco said, deliberately avoiding the question in Hagrid’s voice. “I like to go riding in the summer.” He carefully let go of Midnight’s head. The thestral didn’t move. She seemed content to lie in the snow while she recuperated. He moved back and grabbed up a handful of snow to clean the cut on his palm. It stung a little, but would heal quickly.

“’Ere, sit down,” Hagrid said, taking a seat on a fallen tree and patting the trunk beside him. “Lemme fix yer hand.”

“I'm fine,” Draco said shortly. There was no way he was going to let Hagrid care for his hand. 

As soon as the refusal crossed his mind, he recognized the illogical nature of it. He’d just seen Hagrid care for Midnight, just seen him expertly stitch a wound, so why had he refused?

“I’m not gonna bite,” said Hagrid. “Come ‘ere.”

Draco remembered what he had told Bill, about giving Hagrid a chance. He remembered the way Hagrid had treated him when detention had started, kindly and patiently, and when Draco had tried to push him away with cutting words and cruel inferences, Hagrid had remained calm. He’d even apologized to him. So if he knew that Hagrid was capable of medical care, and if he knew that Hagrid wasn’t going to be cruel, was his refusal only born of prejudice? He was surprised to find that yes, there was prejudice there. Hagrid was a half-giant, and he assumed the caretaker would be clumsy and incapable, even when he’d just seen evidence to the contrary. The realization disturbed him. Why would he hold onto beliefs that weren’t based in logic?

Draco took a seat beside Hagrid and let him examine his hand. He couldn’t help but tense a little, and that wasn’t from prejudice. That was because Hagrid was loyal to Dumbledore and it felt threatening to receive care from an enemy. 

Hagrid dabbed a little disinfectant on the wound. He was gentle, but the potion stung. Draco hissed. 

“Sorry,” Hagrid said. “Know it stings. So how long ‘ave yeh been able to see ‘em?”

Draco flashed back to a handsome face with pale skin crowned by white-blond hair. He and his half-brother were nearly indistinguishable in their baby portraits. The only difference was Lukas had bright blue eyes. He remembered a flash of green, the sound of screaming, and those eyes staring up at the ceiling, lifeless. He remembered a funeral, small, private, final. 

"When me dad died," Hagrid said abruptly. Draco looked up to see the large man stare off for a moment. There was pain in his brown eyes. "Tha's when I could see 'em."

There was something about Hagrid’s pain, and the way he shared it, openly and fearlessly, that made Draco begin to speak without fully deciding to do so. 

“I was seven. I had a brother, half-brother, illegitimate of course. He was older than me by twelve years, the result of a teenage fling of Lucius. He visited one day. He told the family he was getting married to a Muggle woman.” He stopped short as his brain finally realized what he was doing and he let out a string of French expletives. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Look, I’m fine, let me go.” He tried to pull his hand away.

"Jus' wait 'nother few moments, and I'll have yeh all set," said Hagrid. "An' you don' have to talk about it." 

He caught Draco’s eyes and Draco looked away quickly. There was too much compassion in his gaze. It made his throat close up. There was silence for a few moments.

"Are you going to take Midnight back?" Draco asked, just for something to say.

"Nah," said Hagrid. "She'll heal better on 'er own. She jus’ needed some lookin’ after,” He tied the last knot on the bandage wrapped around Draco's palm. "Let's get movin'. We got a long way ter go.”

Draco was happy to get back on the move, ready to leave the painful questions behind him. He was happy that Hagrid didn’t try to pry, at least not until they broke out of the tree line. 

“Was ‘e a good brother?” Hagrid asked. There was kindness in his voice, the sort of kindness that Bill had, and, although Draco wouldn't admit it, he missed the red-haired professor. 

"Yeah," said Draco. "He laughed a lot, liked to play games." He pictured those games now and suddenly felt compelled to finish the story he’d never told anyone. “He came in one day and said that he was going to marry a Muggle girl. He was so happy. He was smiling. He was still smiling when the Kedavra hit, he never even saw it coming. But it was so bright, so green, and then…,” Screaming. That’s what Draco remembered next. His own screaming. 

He pulled in a breath and it sounded ragged, choked. Hagrid stopped and turned to him, expression stricken, and all the grief that Draco felt welling up came crashing back down in self-recrimination. What the hell was he doing, giving away all his secrets? And to whom? And worst of all, what would his father think? 

Self-recrimination turned to rage. 

Draco all but snarled at Hagrid. “This goes no further than this forest. Even if you did feel like telling, no one would believe you over me, you understand?" 

"I won' tell," said Hagrid evenly.

"Good," Draco spat. "Now I'm heading inside before I catch my death of cold and my father has you fired for endangering a student." 

He whirled around and ran for the castle, trying to flee the memories and his own lapse in judgment. But he didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to see anyone. And certainly no one could see him like this, gasping for each breath of air, his heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst out of his chest. He detoured for the lake and the dead tree that stood on a lonely section of shore. He collapsed behind it, curling up and clutching at his collar, trying to pull it away from his neck like it would help him breathe easier. His eyes felt hot; something like a sob rasped out of his throat, but it wasn’t a sob because Draco didn’t cry. Draco _couldn’t_ cry. Not since Narcissa had charmed him as a baby with an anti-crying spell. She hadn’t told anyone about it, so no one had known to take it off. No one had known there was a problem until Lukas was murdered, right in front of him, and instead of crying, all Draco could do was scream. 

He felt like screaming now. He felt like screaming because he was losing his grip on his image, because one gentle question had him spilling secrets no one should know. He felt like screaming because there was no one to talk to, no one safe to confide in, no one who cared without expectation. He felt like screaming because his brother had died so senselessly, so needlessly, and no one had loved him like Lukas had. And that was why Draco had never spoken of him. Not because it was taboo, but because it hurt so much. He had tried to force every memory of his brother away, and he’d done it, for nearly ten years he’d done it, so successfully that even though he had perfect recall, it was hard to remember his brother’s face, hard to remember the sound of his voice. 

Draco dragged in a gulp of air, then another, and another. He forced his body to relax. He forced his mind to refocus. He couldn’t afford another slip-up like this one. He couldn’t keep being thrown when someone showed him any hint of compassion. He needed his reputation back. 

Rule number eleven: Never get blindsided by kindness. Never.

OoOoO

Christmas came with too much pageantry and too little time to himself. Although, because memories of Lukas were too close to the surface, perhaps Dumbledore’s insistence that the staff and students spend the day together wasn’t terrible. It allowed him some distraction. It forced him to play the role of the spoiled Slytherin prince. 

The students and professors had a large Christmas breakfast together, and then opened their gifts underneath the large Christmas tree. Draco received a large basket of sweets – ostensibly from Narcissa, but he knew it was a standing order that Lucius had put in on her behalf – and a selection of books that he’d sent to himself. Appearances needed to be maintained, after all. 

Dumbledore finally allowed the students to disperse in the afternoon. Draco spent those hours in his preferred method of celebration, cozied up beside the fire with a good book in hand. One of the new titles was _Past Pleasure and Pain: The Psychological Potions_. It was a detailed review about the most recent advances in the field of potions, and Draco had been looking forward to its release for several months. It was the third in a series by Hadrian Anwir, which Draco knew to be the secret penname of one Severus Snape. Draco had stumbled upon that tidbit when he’d glimpsed the original manuscript on Snape’s desk. He had to put the book down to make an appearance at dinner, but escaped as soon as possible to delve back in. Snape really was a talented writer. 

He finished the book late in the evening. He snuck to the kitchens for a mug of hot chocolate while he re-read some of the more interesting passages. It was funny, he reflected, how easily Snape could undermine the Dark Lord. In the book, “Anwir” made breakthroughs on the very torture potions Snape created for the Dark Lord. While Voldemort tried time and time again to stop the man who was ruining his work, he never once suspected the man who was creating the torture potions in the first place. And the breakthrough on the Delirium Draught was pure genius, and would no doubt have a ripple effect across the field. 

He was returning to the dorm when the sound of footsteps echoed up from the lower corridors. It was past curfew, and no one should be wandering the halls, so Draco immediately ducked out of sight and threw up a camouflage charm. Then, slowly and cautiously, he followed the footsteps further into the dungeon passageways. It didn’t escape his notice that the footsteps were traveling in the same pattern that he had traveled in his rudimentary search for the horcrux, or that the footsteps paused at the same locked doors he had stopped at. Hogwarts was notorious for its barred doorways. A castle as old as Hogwarts, and with as much magic as Hogwarts, attracted, and sometimes created, many dark creatures. It was difficult to fully expel such entities. It was easier, and more cost efficient, to trap them in a room or closet and ignore the problem. If left long enough, say a century or two, the creatures would waste away on their own. It was these dark creatures, locked away by protective wards, that had prevented Draco from searching the rooms. It meant he could only guess at the contents. 

He layered a silencing spell over the camouflage charm and crept closer. The shadowy figure did not come into clearer focus as he approached. He immediately recognized the effect as a masking potion, which helped the user blend into deep shadows. Such potions were useless in bright lighting, because the shadows clinging to the user were obvious, but they did make the person unidentifiable. Whoever was searching the castle was protecting his or her identity over hiding their presence. 

Draco frowned. The masking potion suggested a level of espionage more serious than he had first considered. And masking potions were difficult to make. Snape must have brewed it, but for whom? Did he even know? 

The figure paused at a doorway that Draco knew was once the Potions Classroom. But fifty years or so ago, a dark wraith had taken up residency. The classroom had been sealed off and the new Potions room was built. 

He watched the figure pull out its wand. He watched the start of a curse-breaking charm and immediately knew it wasn’t going to work. Even worse, it was going set of the alarm.

Draco turned and ran. He was halfway to the Slytherin dorms when the bells started ringing. He managed to dive into the Slytherin common rooms and slam the door before any professors caught him. He couldn’t hear the alarm from the dormitory. It wasn’t meant to alarm the students, just the professors. He pulled in a breath and scrubbed a hand through his hair. Who would be sneaking around at night? Not Snape, certainly. He wouldn’t be that dumb to set off the alarm. It would have to be someone newer to the castle, not as familiar with the warding system. And it wouldn’t be a student. Of the students left in the castle, he was the one with the closest ties to the Death Eaters. It would have to be a professor, but it wasn’t Dumbledore, McGonagall or Sprout. And Flitwick was gone, so it had to be – 

Claire Jameson.

She was the only person left. It had to be her. That meant she was working for the Dark Lord, and she was looking for the horcrux. 

That gave Draco good information though. She was specifically trying to get into the old Potions Classroom. Draco grabbed the Hogwarts yearbooks and flipped through them. A quick survey of the photographs showed that the old Potions room had been used during Tom Riddle’s schooldays. And even more than that, Tom Riddle was pictured as Head of the Brewer’s Club in 1944 and 1945. He was photographed twice in that the room, with the other club members gathered around him, grinning widely. Tom didn’t grin. He stared out of the photograph with an accusatory gaze, like he knew what Draco was doing.

But Draco didn’t know what he was doing. Yes, he was solving the mystery of the horcrux, but that was just because he liked solving puzzles. What he did afterwards… well, he hadn’t decided that.

But the pieces were falling into place. Claire Jameson was most likely a Death Eater and was trying to retrieve the Dark Lord’s horcrux. She was trying to break into places that Riddle would have frequented as a student. That meant the horcrux was personal. 

Draco flipped through the rest of Riddle’s yearbooks. There must be a clue in here somewhere. An aware he had won, or – 

An award. The trophy Riddle had received for Services to the School. Draco knew of the award from Hogwarts legend, but as he poured through the yearbooks, he couldn’t find any mention of it. He knew it had to do with the Chamber of Secrets. He knew that a basilisk had been involved – both in Riddle’s time and in Draco’s second year – but the details were vague in both incidences. It was most infuriating, but even without additional details, Draco was sure that the horcrux was hidden in his old trophy. And if the trophy wasn’t in the school’s trophy room, it made sense that Claire was looking for it elsewhere. 

Draco felt a surge of satisfaction. He’d solved the mystery. 

He didn’t really care to figure out what his next step should be, that was secondary to his success. He went to bed feeling rather smug.

oOoOo

Percy arrived on Christmas Eve with his arms full of books and binders and a bag full of presents slung over his shoulder. From the look of the wrapping, expensive paper and expertly tied bows, he’d gotten them wrapped at the stores, an extra expense that no one in the Weasley family had ever bothered with before. Bill was relieved when Molly greeted him just as warmly as the rest of her children, and even Arthur pulled him into an embrace. Percy ducked out of the hugs as soon as he could, which was in character for him. He bore his siblings’ hugs with greater patience, although he used it as an opportunity to ask Ron and Ginny about their grades and interrogate Fred and George about their business. It was a strange combination of their parents, the fussing came from Molly but the serious questions came from Arthur. Oddly enough, Ginny and Ron seemed happy to answer his questions about school, and even Fred and George seemed to bear the check-up with good-natured humor. 

“What’s all this?” Molly demanded, gesturing to the stack of books in Percy’s hands. “You didn’t bring work home with you, did you?”

“It’s just a few projects to sort through.” 

“Percy!”

“It’s hardly real work, Mum. More like light-reading.”

“They aren’t expecting you to work over the holidays, are they?” Arthur demanded.

“No, I volunteered.”

Fred and George snorted. “There’s a surprise.”

Charlie stepped in and began ushering Percy towards the dining room. “We got you something, Perce.”

“What?”

Percy was herded to the table and Bill saw him balk at the large gift sitting there. Charlie quickly grabbed the books and bag from his hands so he could open it. 

“What’s it for?” Percy asked, eyeing everyone in suspicion.

Bill spoke up. “We didn’t know about your promotion.”

Percy paused, just for a second. His eyes flicked from Bill’s face, over to their parents, and then back again. He gave a smile. “Well, you’ve all been busy.” 

His tone was light, and the excuse came easily, but Bill could see something shutter in his gaze. He had realized that his parents hadn’t shared the news. He understood what that meant. They disapproved.

Percy pulled in a quick breath before stepping over to the gift. He pulled the wrapping paper off, revealing a magical desk lamp, one that could offer a range of lighting options, from daylight to dusk to firelight. It even had a midnight setting where it would project the constellations on the ceiling. Percy exclaimed over the gift with genuine gratitude. It was just the sort of thing he preferred, functional but still beautiful. 

Percy was given his own room in the house, as he was just staying for the night, but Bill wasn’t entirely surprised to find him late that evening at the table. He had a cup of tea in front of him and a stack of his books. Percy’s face was pinched as his eyes scanned the pages. 

“I thought it was just light-reading,” Bill said.

“Mhmm.” Percy didn’t look up from the book. 

Bill pulled the top book off of the stack and raised his eyebrows. “You’re studying for the barrister’s exam?”

“I’m taking it next month.”

“I didn’t think you needed a barrister’s license for your job.”

“Not for mine, but if I want to get promoted, I will.”

“But you just got promoted.”

Percy finally looked up, and Bill was surprised to see how old his younger brother looked. Not that he looked bad or decrepit or older than his age, but he still thought of Percy as a teenager, with his gangly limbs and too-long nose and oversized glasses. But Percy was twenty-one now. He’d grown into his body and his face had filled out, bringing balance to his features. His bulky glasses had been replaced with a pair of sophisticated silver frames and rectangular lenses. His hair, which had always been the darkest of the family, more auburn than ginger, looked darker in the dim light, almost brown. It was brushed neatly to one side. It suited him, even though it made him look strangely anonymous, like he could be any ordinary office worker.

Percy sat back in the chair. “Haynesworth is going to retire when he turns sixty.”

Haynesworth was the Assistant Minister. Bill didn’t know when his birthday was, but it sounded soon. 

“Typically, the position would go to the Secretary, but that’s Sheiling and she doesn’t want it. She’s made it abundantly clear that she’ll turn it down if it’s offered to her. She and Fudge don’t really… well, it would be mess if they worked together.”

Percy reached under his glasses to rub his eyes. “If I pass the bar exam, no one will be able to object if the job is offered to me. There’ll be a fuss about my age of course, but no one will be able to veto it.”

Bill felt a stirring of alarm. Percy, become the Assistant Minister?

Percy seemed to read the concern on his face because he stiffened. “I can do it.”

“I’m not doubting your ability. I’m wondering if you should accept.”

Percy frowned, still offended. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because the Ministry hasn’t exactly been on our side with everything going on. There’s a reason Dumbledore started the Order. No one at the Ministry was listening to him; no one was caring about the attacks on Muggles and Muggle-borns.” 

“All the more reason to take the position, wouldn’t you say? To ensure that the appropriate steps are being taken to address the conflict?” 

“I don’t think an Assistant’s position would let you fix anything. You’re supposed to be non-partisan. That means toeing the line between the Death Eaters and those fighting for equality. Would you really want to do that?”

“Non-partisan means looking at everything from a logical viewpoint under the guiding lens of the law. Do you think that standing against Death Eaters is logical and lawful?”

Bill felt a little put on the spot. “Well… yes.”

“So what’s your concern?”

“Things get complicated in the government. People go into politics with good intentions, but then they begin to compromise on their morals. They capitulate in one area to get their way in another, and then it’s a slippery slope of failed promises and conceded ethics.” 

“If you’re going to use the ‘power corrupts’ argument against me, I’ll have you know that Dumbledore, operating outside of the purview of the government and without any sort of oversight, is in more danger of being corrupted than people operating in the Ministry.”

“You can’t really think that,” Bill said. “You know all the ills of campaign finance fraud and insider trading and lenient sentencing. You know that once someone is elected in Wizengamot it’s hard to get them out.”

“Yes, it’s a problem. But at least people are aware it’s a problem and are trying to close the loopholes in the system. Dumbledore’s starting his own army. Shouldn’t that be regulated?”

“Percy, I signed up for his army because the Ministry hasn’t started their own. People are dying out there. Our government isn’t doing enough.”

“You think I’m complicit with Death Eaters because I’m working for the government.”

“No! Merlin, no. Why would you even think that?”

Percy shrugged. “That’s what dad thinks. Mum too.”

Bill sighed. “Our parents fought in the first war. Not having the Ministry on their side now makes them feel betrayed. I do think that the Ministry is perpetuating harm by not taking a firmer stance against Death Eaters, but when they come around, they’re going to need good people in office. Good people like you. I guess I’m just scared for you. It’s not going to be easy.”

His words seemed to settle Percy. He nodded. “I can do it.”

“Just… take care of yourself. You work too hard.”

“You sound like Mum.”

“Don’t think you haven’t picked up any of our parents’ endearing qualities. I saw you grilling Ron and Ginny about their grades.”

“You used to grill me about grades.”

“I never had to grill you about grades. That was Charlie. I had to grill you about making friends.”

Percy huffed a laugh. “Well, that’s true.”

Bill got up. “Don’t stay up too late. Santa won’t come if you’re not in bed.”

Percy rolled his eyes. “Hilarious.”

OoOoO

Christmas was loud, messy, full of laughter, and just what everyone needed. They were woken up at four thirty in the morning by Fred and George who would never be too old to jump furiously on their siblings’ beds until said siblings were up, or at least somewhat functional and standing. To prevent them from returning to the safety of their blankets, the twins sprinkled the mattresses with their new product 'Bed-Wetter's Bane' which made the sheets turn yellow and wet whenever someone lay on them.

Bill sighed and went downstairs to join Charlie for a cup of coffee, leaving his younger brothers and sister to the antics of Fred and George.

"How long do you s’pose it'll take for them to rouse Mum and Dad?" asked Bill, sitting down at the table and watching in disgust as his oldest-younger brother shrugged, looking far too awake for four in the morning.

"I'll give them half an hour," said Charlie, not bother to hide his grin. "You've gone soft at the school. What happened to, 'We had to stay up all night to crack the code because we needed moonlight and then the first rays of dawn to trigger the rune. After that we had to manually dig through a solid brick wall all the while dodging curses from the enchanted sphinxes and warding off giant vampire bats'?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Bill, "you've had your share of completely unbelievable stories as well. 'I took a running jump, and leapt onto the dragon's back, holding on for dear life as he swooped and swerved trying to shake me off, or burn me alive, but then I pulled out my wand and, holding onto the wings with one arm, managed to subdue the beast', if I remember correctly."

Charlie shrugged. "That’s a perfectly true account of a dragon-keeper’s daily chores.”

They exchanged looks and burst into laughter.

Percy staggered into the room, hair mused, glasses askew, papers and books clutched to his chest like he was a mother grasping her newborn. “I’m going to kill them.”

“Alright there?” Charlie asked.

“They tried transfiguring my paperwork into poetry. _Lewd_ poetry.” Percy collapsed into a chair and pillowed his head on his rescued books. “Wake me when everyone’s up.”

Their father was finally roused at five-thirty, but then he had to Floo over to the Burrow and bring all of the presents back to Order headquarters. Their mother didn’t get up until six. Tradition dictated that presents were opened after breakfast, so while she cooked, the stockings were opened. Harry, as an honorary member of the family, had his own stocking, which still made him flush in happiness. The stockings were stuffed with the typical trinkets of a wizarding Christmas, ornaments, fuzzy socks, novelty quills, and the like. As usual, everyone received the same items, just in different colors. 

Christmas breakfast was truly amazing. Bill didn’t know how Molly managed to get it all done, and in under an hour, but soon the table was set with a full English breakfast with a few additions for the holidays, Bill’s favorite being the cranberry sweetrolls. In the middle of the meal, Fred and George slipped something into Percy’s coffee, and being sleep-deprived, he didn’t see it. One sip later, and steam burst from his ears accompanied by the whistling sound of a tea kettle. He opened his mouth to tell them off, but only gibberish came out. Ginny laughed so hard she nearly choked; Ron did choke and had to have his back pounded by Harry. Molly threatened to take the twins presents back to the stores unopened, but no one took the threat seriously.

Once they’d all eaten themselves full to bursting, they retired to the family room to open gifts. Bill remembered a childhood when there was only one or two gifts for each person, and a few years when Molly and Arthur didn’t exchange gifts themselves. But as Arthur got promoted, and as finances got a little easier, the holiday got a little bigger as well. The gifts grew in number and took on more frivolous content, instead of purely functional gifts, like a pair of new boots. And, now that most of the kids were grown and working, there was a veritable treasure trove of presents under the tree. It took quite a while to get through the stack, because family ritual dictated that presents had to be opened one at a time, so everyone could ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over the gift. 

It wasn’t a bad way to spend the morning though. They drank butterbeer, pulled on their Weasley jumpers (the only gifts that were opened at the same time), and generally enjoyed one another’s company. All of the gifts Fred and George gave were prank themed, and Charlie had tried to give everyone some form of dragon, from dragon’s egg paperweights to dragon-skin gloves. The gifts Percy had brought were painstakingly curated to the giftee, but clearly expensive, which evoked a range of reactions from the family.

Arthur stared silently at the watch he’d been given, before meeting Percy’s gaze and giving a nod. 

“Percy, you shouldn’t have,” their mother chided, staring at a pair of gold earrings. They were tiny hoops, just the size she liked, but pure gold, not the gold-plated ones she usually wore.

“I love it, I love it, I love it,” Ginny exclaimed, clutching the designer purse to her chest. 

“Tickets to a Puddlemere game,” said Fred.

“Must be a bribe,” said George. 

They turned to stare at Percy, before nodding. 

“Accepted.”

“A bribe for what?” Percy asked, completely befuddled. 

The presents under the tree gradually dwindled down to a last remaining gift, a rectangular box neatly wrapped in green and gold paper with a perfectly tied bow on top. Ginny grabbed it, read the tag, and handed over to Bill. There was no sender on the gift.

"Is it from Fleeuuurrrr?" Fred and George trilled together.

“Doesn’t say,” said Bill, turning the package over to see if it’d been written anywhere else.

“Well, open it,” said Charlie. “Maybe it’s on the inside.” 

"Maybe it's from a secret admirer," teased Ron, who was no longer mad at him since Bill had consented to play a game of chess with him and been thoroughly trounced.

"Or perhaps Bill is taking advantage of the fact that his girlfriend lives so far away," said Ginny, grinning at him slyly.

"Only you would think of that, Ms. I've-had-four-different-dates-this-year-already," said Bill, teasing her back.

"Three," said Ginny, tossing her hair back haughtily. "I told you Liam doesn't count."

"Three?" asked Ron, starting to get a little angry. "You've had three boyfriends this year?"

“_Dates_, Ron,” Ginny clarified, not that it seemed to make Ron feel any better. 

Bill saw the glance Ginny stole in Harry’s direction. It wasn’t as long as her glances used to be, nor was there the same amount of longing in her eyes. It seemed like she was getting over her crush on the boy-hero. Bill felt a bit disappointed at that. He liked Harry, and he trusted that boy would treat her well. But Ginny seemed inclined to be choosy, and he couldn’t blame her for that either. 

“Well, are you going to open it?” Charlie asked.

Bill turned back to the gift in his hand and ripped open the paper. The family leaned in as he pulled out a set of old books bound together with a gold rope. They were slim, small books, but the covers were antique wood, and when he opened them, he could see hand-painted illustrations inside. They were old books, written in gorgeous runic scripts, five distinct dialects no less. 

"What are they?" asked Ron.

"Ancient wizarding tales," said Bill, flipping slowly through the pages. "These two are different forms of the Gaelic dialect, this one is Egyptian, and this one is an African script. I haven’t seen this last one before.” The books were, by far, the most beautiful present he’d ever received, and he couldn’t wait to start translating them. As he turned them over in his hands, a small square of parchment fell out. Bill picked it up, reading the message, and breaking into a large grin. The paper simply read '_Thanks_' in a perfect calligraphy that could only be from one person.

"Who’s it from?" asked Molly.

Bill hesitated, before replying. "Oh, just a colleague of mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rather pleased that this Christmas chapter gets up on Christmas. And if you need more Christmas fluff in your life, I am posting Discomfort and Joy on this site as well, with some minor edits and updates. I'm updating that daily. As always, this story is published on FFN with author's notes, for those of you who want to follow the editing process. Merry Christmas to you all, and please leave a comment on your way out!


	16. Rule 13: There is no hole bigger in a disguise than the hole of perfection.

_Rule number thirteen: There is no hole bigger in a disguise than the hole of perfection._

Draco didn’t want to go down to Hagrid’s to resume detention after the holidays. The half-giant knew too much. Draco had _told_ him too much, like some sniveling first year who spends the first night at Hogwarts crying themselves to sleep, but it wasn’t as if he could simply skip detention. He was going to have to obliviate the groundskeeper. There was nothing else to be done. He knew he was relying too heavily on memory modification charms to erase his poor decisions, and that he wasn’t always going to be able to obliviate his mistakes away. There’d come a time when he was stuck with his choices, and he needed to start making the right decision the first time around. 

He spent Boxing Day muttering to himself in recrimination while he researched giant biology. Magic behaved differently on giants, and memory charms were already tricky. He’d need to make adjustments for Hagrid. He spent the entire night reformulating the spell, and when he finally finished, there was at least an eighty percent chance the spell would work without any negative side effects. There was a ten percent chance he might wipe Hagrid’s memory completely. 

Draco scowled at his lunch as he heard Bill’s voice in his head, rambling about ethics and morality. _‘It wouldn’t be right to harm Hagrid. He had been nothing but kind to Draco. This was no way to treat a friend.’_

In truth, Hagrid didn’t really pose a threat to him, not the way that Warrington and Nott had when he’d erased their memories. Even mind-wiping Blaise was defendable because if Blaise let it slip that Draco had saved him, his cover would be blown. Draco would be in actual danger. Wiping Hagrid’s memory would be a purely selfish act. Draco wanted to stop thinking about Lukas, and to stop thinking about Hagrid thinking about Lukas. And he wanted Lukas to be a secret again, something he could tuck away and ignore and only bring out when the occasion suited. But it wasn’t as if Lukas himself had been a secret. Not many people knew about him, but there were records of Lukas’ parentage in France, and there was a gravesite with his name on it. Lucius paid for flowers to be kept there, exchanged out for a fresh bouquet every week. 

If Draco were honest with himself, it wasn’t really Lukas that Draco wanted to erase from Hagrid’s mind; it was his own sharing to telling the story. What impression must he have given in that moment? Someone emotionally distraught and grieving? Someone completely out of control and crazed? Or worse, someone vulnerable; someone _pitiable_? 

Draco didn’t mind using emotions to get his way. He often ‘flew into rages’ or ‘caused a scene’ when the result was beneficial. Hell, he did it sometimes just to let off steam. But this was vastly different. It was unacceptable. 

He shoved his lunch away from him with a curse and stormed out of the hall, pleased at the way the other students quickly fell silent, not daring to look his way. Even the professors looked down. That was how it should be. People should fear him, be intimidated by him, not concerned or sympathetic, not pitying or compassionate. 

He pulled on his winter gear and stomped outside, wand clenched in his hand. The air was cold against this face. The sky was clear and bright. Draco couldn’t keep the pace of his march, not when it had snowed again and it was drifting over his knees. He swept out with his wand. “Ventas!” 

The wind spell swept in front of him, easily clearing the snow for the first few steps, but then he had to cast it again and again, each consecutive spell getting stronger than the first until he was caught up in a veritable blizzard and he had to stop because he couldn’t see anymore. He paused in the unintentional white-out and tipped his head up to watch the snow dance around him. It was like he was standing in snow globe. There was something soothing about watching the snow settle, the flakes swooping around him, twirling together, but always falling, ever so slowly, to the ground. He pulled in a breath and felt his anger follow the snow, settling into something calmer. 

Logic returned to him. Obliviating Hagrid was risky. It wasn’t a guaranteed success, and even if it were successful, the charm could still be discovered. That would threaten his cover as an E student, which was more important than taking the memory away.

_Besides_, said the voice that sounded like Bill, _Hagrid’s proven he can be trusted. And it’s not so bad to hang out with him, is it?_

He ruthlessly squashed the voice and started out again, trudging slower through the snow and pocketing his wand. He found Hagrid standing in the thestral pen with Midnight. He was grooming her while she nudged at his coat, obviously looking for the treats he had stashed there.

“’Lo, Draco,” Hagrid said easily. “Did yeh ‘ave a good Christmas?” There was nothing pitying in his expression, nothing tentative that said Hagrid was going to ask prying questions.

Draco felt the last bit of pressure ease in his chest. He clamored up to sit on the fence and shrugged. “Tolerable, I suppose. How about you?”

“Can’t complain,” said Hagrid. “Say, do yeh know ‘how ter train thestrals?”

Draco shrugged. “I rode a few in competitions. Why?”

“I was wonderin’ if yeh would like ter help me get some of ‘em ready ter show.”

Draco cast a quick eye over Midnight. “She’s too old.”

“I was thinkin’ ‘bout Orion.”

Hagrid gestured up in the air, and Draco turned to see a young thestral in midflight. Even from a distance, he could see that the thestral’s figure, a long neck, wide wings, and good posture in the air. Hagrid stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle. The thestral whinnied back, and then swooped down to land inside the pen, the wings flicking up the top layer of snow. 

“’ere, boy,” Hagrid greeted, tempting the thestral closer with a strip of jerky. The thestral pranced in place for a moment, clearly spirited, but then approached to nip the meat out of Hagrid’s hand. The animal was close enough for Hagrid to slip a loop of rope around his neck. The thestral seemed used to this and snuffed for another snack. 

“Have you saddle-trained yet?” Draco asked.

Hagrid nodded. “’e has some good days and bad days with the saddle, but ‘e’s gettin’ used ter it.” 

“Training would take longer than the rest of break,” Draco said.

"I was sorta hopin' yeh might come down on weekends.” 

Hagrid shifted on his feet. When Draco didn’t answer right away, Hagrid pulled off his cap and began twisted it nervously in his large, rough hands. Draco noted, with a good deal of surprise, that Hagrid was afraid he would refuse.

"Yeh don' hafta," said Hagrid hastily. "Yer prob'ly busy an' all with school and…,"

Draco tuned him out as he continued to ramble, his brain whirling through all of the possibilities. He liked thestrals. He enjoyed training them and riding in competitions. He had won quite a few medals doing it. It was a challenging sport, so naturally he enjoyed it. Had it been anyone else, Draco would have said 'yes' in an instant, but Hagrid was Hagrid and there were reputations to be upheld. Rule number twelve, after all. Appearances had to be maintained. 

But there were ways of helping without looking like he was helping. A well-timed detention block should do the trick. 

"-an' I understan’ if yeh don’ –," Hagrid continued, but Draco cut him off.

"Yes.” 

Hagrid looked surprised. "What?" 

"Saturdays, after lunch. Is that agreeable?"

"Yes," said Hagrid, still looking surprised.

“And if anyone asks, it’s detention.”

“What?”

“Detention,” Draco repeated, loudly and slowly.

“But yeh don’ have detention.”

“Not yet.” 

Draco hopped down from the fence and approached Orion, hand out, fingers flat, and waited for the thestral to sniff him. Orion did for a moment, but when he realized he had no food, turned back to nuzzling Hagrid’s coat again. 

“Let’s see how he takes the saddle today,” Draco said.

It was not a good day for the saddle. Orion bucked and bolted and canted about the pen, refusing for the saddle to be cinched around his middle. But he never flew away, suggesting he found the situation humorous. It said something to his spirit, and Hagrid laughed loudly and frequently, even when the thestral bucked him into a snowbank. Draco couldn’t help but smile himself. 

After an unsuccessful couple of hours, Hagrid let him go with a shake of his head. “We’ll hafta try again tomorrow.”

The rest of Draco’s detentions were spent training Orion, much to his satisfaction. Orion allowed the saddle to be placed on the second day after some fussing, but on the third, he didn’t even shy away from it. Draco showed Hagrid a few tricks of re-enforcement with the thestrals and walked through the qualifications of a show. He doubted Orion would be ready in the year, perhaps not even next year, but to show a wild thestral at a competition… well, that would be worth the wait. 

While Draco enjoyed having the run of the castle to himself, he was still relieved for the holiday break to come to an end. He could focus on his own projects well enough, but it was easier when there were enforced deadlines, easier when there was the expectation of productivity, easier – sometimes – when there were people around. For as much as Slytherin house could fall into competition, there was usually a decent amount of comradery. Draco could enjoy an afternoon listening to Millicent and Agathe gossip about the drama in the other houses, or enjoy an evening playing chess with Nott or Warrington. He didn’t mind it when Zabini would plunk down next to him to work on a grueling assignment together, or when Pansy would curl up next to him, just looking for an hour of quiet, maybe some light petting. 

Draco sat by the fire on the Saturday after the students had returned and watched a few of the Slytherins mingle with each other. There was some conversation, some laughter, some exhibition of Christmas gifts, but then the Pureblood divide settled in – helped along by Nott practically shoving Blaise away from his table. Draco didn’t say anything, not when Blaise looked his way, wondering if he might intercede, not when the students drifted back into their divisions, not when Pansy sank down beside him. 

She kissed his cheek. “Love the shoes, darling. But if you think that wipes out your debt, I’d say you’re not the financial genius you claim to be.”

“Do you want me to pay you back?” Draco asked, turning to her. “Wouldn’t you rather have me in your pocket, use me as some form of immunity or escape clause if needed?”

Her face settled into seriousness, matching his mood. “It is the best use I can get out of you.”

“You don’t want me to do something about this?” Draco gestured out at the common room. He knew that the divide made Pansy’s job all the more important, but it also made it dangerous. 

Pansy gave him a long, pitying look. “Draco, I don’t doubt your confidence. But this,” she looked about the room, “you can’t fix this. You’re not that powerful.”

Her disbelief didn’t irritate him. If anything, it was a relief because if anyone were to find out about his genius, apart from a certain Runes professor who’d overheard a drugged confession, it would be her. 

“If I could, would you want me to fix it?”

Pansy’s lips pursed. She looked away and shrugged. The wrap she wore over a strappy satin shirt slipped down, baring her shoulder and the few freckles that were sprinkled over her skin. Draco traced them with his finger as she thought. Her skin was soft.

Pansy spoke quietly. “Loyalty, as much as it is a Gryffindor trait, is not without merit. We’ve known our classmates for six years now. While I wouldn’t mind seeing some of them brought down a peg and securing my own future, I don’t know if I wish lasting harm on anyone.” She settled against him and glanced up at his face. “What about you? Fixing the divide suggests some form of compassion, does it not? How does that fall in line with your Malfoy values?”

“I was asking from a business perspective,” Draco said. 

“Of course you were.”

Draco cast an eye about the room. “I can think of a few people I wouldn’t mind harming.”

“You were always the vengeful sort.”

“Pragmatic.”

“If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

Draco flicked her shoulder and then surveyed the room once more. One side would be victorious; the other would be defeated. It would be easy to join Warrington and Nott, and snuff out Blaise’s paltry rebellion. It would be more difficult to join Blaise’s and wrest control away from the Pureblood group. Of course, any decision he made here would have consequences once he left Hogwarts, and that future was already decided for him. The only third option was inaction, which he had chosen up until now, and that had its own dangers. He could see Warrington glancing at him from across the room. He was wondering why Draco was hesitating. He was wondering if Draco was weak, and if now was the time to dethrone him. Draco was going to have to do something. He just didn’t know what. 

Monday returned the students to their classes and it was easy to slip back into the school routine. Draco kept a careful eye on Claire Jameson in Arithmancy, certain she was a Death Eater, or at the very least in the employ of the Dark Lord. She didn’t behave like a Death Eater though. She was a gentle teacher, soft when she needed to be firm, and quiet when she needed to be loud. Her hair was always pulled back in a bun or a twist and her teacher’s robes were worn over an old-fashioned skirt-suit, typically in a demure tweed. Her voice still had that intonation that grated on him, the elongated vowels and lilting questions that made him think of Narcissa and her seductions. It wasn’t a surprise that half the boys in class, and a couple of the girls, had a crush on her. 

No one else seem suspicious of her. But even if there hadn’t been a vocal clue, and even if Draco hadn’t stumbled upon her trying to open the old Potions classroom, he would have suspected her of something. She was _too_ mild, and her hair and wardrobe were _too_ cliché. It was like she had a stylist who was dressing her for an acting role. And she never broke character. She never got short or irritated or overwhelmed. She didn’t seem to have a personality apart from her career. 

Rule number thirteen: There is no hole bigger in a disguise than the hole of perfection.

Still, her act seemed enough to fool everyone else. Draco was a little disappointed in the Gryffindors; they really should have noticed by now. And they really should have figured out that the horcrux in the school was Tom Riddle’s trophy. 

He spent Debate Class that Wednesday night running through a list of pros and cons of informing the Order what the horcrux was. He was surprised to discover that there were very few cons. As much as his service to the Dark Lord was already promised, he felt no inherent loyalty to him. That was partially due to Lucius, who always treated him more as a tool instead of a god, but there was still a hesitation in taking deliberate action against the Death Eaters. Purebloods, his father repeatedly informed him, were responsible for maintaining the sanctity of wizarding culture. Mudbloods couldn’t understand or appreciate their values, and Halfbloods were sullied with their Muggle connection. 

“They’re traitors!” Nott exclaimed, thumping on the podium he was standing behind. “Marrying a Muggle? It’s like marrying a dog and should be criminalized!”

The students on the Pureblood Superiority side cheered. Those in the Neutral group seemed troubled.

“Criminalized how?” asked Isobel McDougal, one the neutral students.

“Exile,” Nott said.

Isobel picked up a piece of paper. “Current population statistics show that fifteen percent of married citizens are married to Muggles. You would be exiling fifteen percent of the population.” 

Draco knew what she wasn’t saying. The nation couldn’t survive a loss of that magnitude. The economy would crumble. 

“So be it!” Nott proclaimed. “Unless they recant, they aren’t welcome here! They’re betraying their blood, their inheritance. They’re betraying magic itself.”

The Purebloods cheered again. Draco saw the Neutral students confer together, clearly unconvinced, and though he was technically part of the group, they left him out of the conversation. They assumed he was a spy.

He considered Nott’s claim. Was it a betrayal to marry a Muggle? Lucius certainly thought so. He’d been angry when Lukas had announced it; struck almost dumb with shock and rage. But he hadn’t had a chance to respond. The killing curse came too quickly. _That_, Draco knew, was not what Lucius would have done. Disownment, certainly. But not death. 

Draco wondered who Lukas was going to marry. He had a sudden burning curiosity to know what girl, what _Muggle_ girl of all things, could have caught Lukas’ affections so completely. Was she exceptionally beautiful or incredibly intelligent? Was she well-read and sophisticated, or was she grounded and kind? 

Lukas should have been allowed to marry her, Draco was certain of that. But if Lukas was allowed to marry a Muggle, then other wizards and witches must be afforded that same right. Logic demanded that. But if that premise was accepted, it led to a trickier question. Marriage was assumed to be a partnership of equals, suggesting that Muggles were equal to those with magic. At the very least, if the marriage was upheld, it would entitle Muggle spouses to the same rights as their partners: the right to inherit, the right to make legal decisions, and the right to parent any children that may result from the marriage. And then logic demanded that those Half-blood children be treated equal to Pureblood children.

And if Muggle spouses had the same rights as their magical partners, then what about Muggle-born wizards and witches? Were they to be denied those same rights simply because they were not married? And what if they did eventually marry? Would they suddenly gain those rights following their marriage vows? What if they divorced? Would they lose them again? 

Draco’s head began to ache. It always did when these thoughts arose. He pushed them away because they were a distraction from the true question: should he tell the Order about the horcrux? 

His main hesitation was not wanting to pick sides. He didn’t want to be bound to either group. He could side-step that by sending the tip anonymously, but that led to another concern. If the Dark Lord lost his horcrux, he would be angry, and when he was angry, he got violent. Draco could be endangering his father by helping the Order. 

There was a voice in his head, one that sounded like Bill, that said a good leader wouldn’t torture people. Torture, as a concept, was wrong and reprehensible, and following someone who used, taught, and encouraged torture was condoning the practice. 

Draco frowned. This was the second time in as many weeks he’d had such thoughts. Rational thoughts, yes, but indisputably more aligned with Bill’s values than the ones that Draco was raised with. It was irksome.

But however irksome it was to have Bill’s voice in his head, that didn’t stop him from eagerly looking forward to their runes work together. As soon as Runes class let out, Draco was getting up to join Bill as he pulled out their various scrolls and parchments. He returned the smile Bill gave him without a second thought. 

"How was your break?" asked Bill.

"Endurable," said Draco. "Yours?"

Bill paused. His face scrunched. Draco put the papers back down, suddenly wondering if everything was okay. There could have been a Death Eater meeting, or maybe one of his family members was ill.

“It was a dichotomy,” Bill finally settled on. “It was wonderful to see my family again, and at times, it felt like my childhood – fun, loud, happy, chaotic. And at other times… well, I’ve been away from my family for a while. People are growing up in ways I didn’t expect and growing apart in ways that worry me.”

“And you immediately wanted to fix it,” Draco said, spotting the look on Bill’s face.

Bill laughed. “Well, yes. But unfortunately, it was also a busy season for Death Eaters, so I had to leave few nights. Although, the meetings were… more casual than I expected.” 

“A lot of the Death Eaters are related to each other,” Draco said. “Because there’s competition in the families, it’s sometimes better for them to have their holiday gatherings in a public setting. It can cut down on the cursing.”

“Huh.” Bill tipped his head and seemed to replay some of the Death Eater meetings with the new context. “That makes sense.”

Draco began sorting the texts back into the order they were before break. Idle curiosity had him asking, “What’s a Weasley Christmas like?”

Bill launched into a description of the holiday that could have been pictured on a Christmas card or written in a book. Christmas breakfast as a family, stockings piled high with knick-knacks and inside jokes, presents underneath the tree, opening them all together as a family. 

“Fleur spent a few days with us too,” Bill added.

There was a particular note in his voice that made Draco glance over. Bill’s eyes were bright. He was smiling widely.

Draco rolled his eyes. “So when are you popping the question?”

"How did you –," 

Draco smirked. "Have you looked in the mirror when you talk about her?" 

"Well, no.”

Draco found the stack of Germanic runes they were last studying and pulled them out. “It's a complete give-away. Anyone with a half a brain could see that you're nuts about her."

"That doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to ask her to marry me.”

"But you're going to.”

“How did you know?” 

There were dozens of reasons: Bill valued marriage and family. Bill had experience dating and had figured out what he wanted in a partner. Bill was clearly in love and Fleur was smart, beautiful, and capable of weathering the chaos of the Weasley family. She was also calm and composed, something that Bill himself exhibited. They were a good match and the timing was right. 

Draco didn’t say any of that. “I'm a genius. So, when's the lucky day?"

"Valentine's," said Bill. "She's coming up then."

"Utterly sappy and romantic. Where's the Rischlin Scroll?"

Bill handed it to him. "Do you think she like it?" 

“Like what?” Draco asked, even though he knew what Bill meant. Bill gave him knowing look, so he answered. “She'll love it. She’s a romantic at heart.”

“How well do you know her?”

Draco shrugged. “She’s friends with Pansy. They write each other from time to time.”

Bill nodded. “Last question, what do you think about an engagement ring that isn’t a diamond?”

“If you were from an old, wealthy family and your match was predetermined, you would need a large diamond, preferably one that’s been in the family a long time. But alternative gems are considered trendy right now, so you’ll be fine.”

Bill let out a breath. 

“Can we get to work now?” Draco asked.

Bill laughed, but then joined him in re-organizing their reference charts.

“Oh, I’m going to need a detention,” Draco said.

Bill raised his eyebrows. “Detention?”

"Preferably a couple in a row. Saturdays. After lunch."

"Do I want to know why you need detention?" 

"I'm helping Hagrid train a thestral for show riding.”

“And you need an excuse,” Bill said, catching onto his train of thought. “Consider it done. You were taking notes out of my test book and you now have ten Saturdays of detention."

"Sounds Slytherin enough.”

“You and Hagrid must have got along if you’re going to keep helping him.” There was something smug about Bill’s voice.

Draco raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Sounds like someone told Hagrid a sob story about my life to get him to be nice to me.” A little bit of the old anger returned, and his expression got colder.

Bill winced. “I only shared what was already public knowledge. I just… highlighted some of the details that otherwise go unnoticed.”

“Which is the way I prefer it.”

“But it’s harmful.”

“Harmful?”

“You now have an opportunity to train a thestral, which sounds like it’s something you enjoy. Removing yourself from relationships means missing out on like opportunities.”

“So you’re forging relationships on my behalf?”

“I’m doing my job as a teacher to look out for the interests of my best student.”

Draco paused a moment, because there was an unexpected flash of warmth at being called Bill’s ‘best student’. But that didn’t negate his presumption. “You gossiped about me.”

Bill put down the papers to face him. “Professors are meant to talk in constructive ways about their students. If one teacher realizes that a student is having a hard time with reading comprehension, they’ll inform the other professors so we can all offer adjusted assignments. If a teacher thinks that a kid seems off in class, they’ll ask around and see if anyone else has noticed because it could indicate an underlying issue. If a teacher feels a student is being misaligned or mistreated, they’ll point it out to the faculty to watch for any negative stereotyping.” 

Draco supposed it was a fair point. He still gave him a look. “Well, don’t defend me to anyone else, alright? I have a reputation to maintain.”

Bill smiled, but there was a pinch about his eyes. 

“You told someone else about me?” Draco demanded.

“Not you specifically,” Bill was quick to reassure him. “I just may have mentioned that many of the professors seem ready to prove your guilt instead of assume your innocence, and that such assumptions aren’t fair to our students, especially because we’re a bunch of adults and you’re still a teenager.”

There it was again, that strange feeling of warmth. Draco pushed it away. “Who’d you tell?”

Bill rubbed the back of his neck and his voice dropped. “Dumbledore.”

“You told the Headmaster I was being treated unfairly?”

“It may have been a bit of a lecture.” Bill looked outright uncomfortable at that, like he still couldn’t believe his presumption.

Draco couldn’t help the grin that slid onto his face. “You lectured _Dumbledore_, seriously? When?”

“Right after the vampire attack.”

The satisfaction faded and confusion took its place. “Bill, we weren’t even –,” Draco very nearly said ‘friends’ but shied away from that term. “We weren’t even working together then.”

“And?”

“You yelled at Dumbledore before you even knew me?”

“One, I did not yell at him,” Bill corrected. “And two, I knew that you needed someone on your side. Even if you hadn’t wanted to work with me, you still deserved that.”

Draco’s jaw worked as he tried to take in that piece of information. He’d known that Bill was a good person, but sometimes seeing the proof, _benefiting_ from the proof, was a little staggering. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that. ‘Thank you’, perhaps? But it seemed somewhat insufficient. 

The door opened before he had a chance to respond. Draco jerked around as Claire Jameson entered. She pulled up at the sight of them. 

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize anyone was still here. I think I left some papers in the desk.”

Draco turned to Bill in question. Claire had her own room; why was she using Bill’s desk?

“I didn’t see any, but you can sort through if you need,” said Bill. 

Claire approached, glancing curiously at the pair of them. Draco immediately felt on edge. He was sure she was a Death Eater, or somehow allied with them, and that meant she’d be suspicious of seeing Draco with Bill. 

“Thanks for letting me borrow your classroom again,” she said to Bill, slowly walking by, eyes flitting between them and the work spread between them. “Peeves really did a number during the 5th year class.”

“I got chased out by him earlier in the year,” Bill said. “Minerva says it’s tradition.”

Claire finally made it to the desk. Draco made a point of huffing as he sorted through the papers, trying to look frustrated and confused. Claire began sorting through the papers on the desk, but slowly. She was stalling; Draco was sure of it. He felt his muscles tense. His fingers flew in his 1 to 2-4-3-5 pattern. Was this about him? Or was it about Bill? Was it pure coincidence she’d come in now, or was she eavesdropping on their time together?

Bill read his tension and turned to Claire. “Need a hand?”

“Oh, no, I found it!”

Claire pulled up some papers and gave a satisfied smile. She walked over to glance at the work between them. “What’s all this? It looks complicated.”

“Draco’s summer program didn’t cover all the runes he needs for class,” Bill said, lying easily. “We’re sorting through the ones he needs to catch up on.”

Draco kept a sullen expression on his face and knew their ruse had worked when she nodded and finally left the room. The door shut behind her. Draco threw up a silencing charm, just in case she was listening at the door.

“You don’t trust her,” Bill said. 

“She talks like my mother,” Draco said shortly. He could see the confusion on Bill’s face, so he elaborated. “Like a whore.”

Bill blinked at his bluntness. “I don’t think that’s appropriate language to be using with a professor.” 

Draco let out of a breath of laughter. “You’re spying on Death Eaters who are trying to take over the country. We don’t need to stand on niceties.”

“Wait, you think she’s a _Death Eater_?” Bill sounded incredulous. 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“First, as I’ve just said, she talks like my mother.”

Bill shook his head. “I’m going to need some context for that.” 

Draco put the papers down. “My mother is a known philanderer. She spends most of her time in the company of her paramours, both old and new, and every conversation they have is some form of flirtation or innuendo. It’s become her primary language, and she can’t turn it off, even when she’s talking about the weather. There’s always a note to her voice, like she’s trying to seduce you. Claire talks like that.”

Bill squinted, like he was trying to recall her voice. “It could be an accent or an inflection style. Maybe her parents spoke English as a second language, or maybe she grew up outside of England.” 

“There’s also the matter of her wardrobe,” Draco added.

“There’s nothing wrong with her wardrobe.”

“Exactly. All of her clothes are new –,”

“A lot of people will buy new clothes for a new job.”

“But not an entire new wardrobe. And all of her clothes are completely modest.”

“Which could just be her style.”

“Yes, but pair her voice with her wardrobe, and it doesn’t fit.”

“This is a matter of your opinion,” Bill said. “Your assumptions are based on personal history. You can’t judge people based on your own experiences.”

“Next time she talks to you, picture that she’s in bed with you and you’ll see what I mean.”

Bill pulled back, his face reddening at the suggestion. “I’m not going to… to _fantasize_ about a coworker in a compromising situation.”

“Fine.” Draco rolled his eyes. “A date then. One with candlelight and she’s wearing a strapless dress, and her hair is down, and she’s making moon eyes at you.” Draco raised his voice into a falsetto, mimicking Claire. “_‘Oh, thank you_ so _much for letting me use your classroom, Bill.’_”

Bill’s face got redder, but this time there were more anger in his expression. “I’m not comfortable with this conversation. You should stop.”

Draco felt his own flare of anger. “Stop being such a prude. Just because you have a girlfriend doesn't mean you have to be celibate."

"I'm starting to believe that we have very different views when it comes to moral values.” There was a good amount of reproof in Bill’s eyes. 

"We are not here to talk about my morals," Draco said, his words coming out faster, harder. "So what if I think that marriage is an excuse to shag four times a day and a way to reduce income taxes? The fact is that Claire Jameson has everyone believing she's a saint when she's a seductress."

Bill shook his head. "Draco, you are one messed up kid.”

The anger flared. Draco didn’t know if it was due to Bill’s continued disbelief or his pitying words.

"Well catching your mother banging 'Cousin Richard' in reverse cowgirl on the kitchen table tends to do that to a seven-year-old!" Draco snapped. "I can't help it if you're too blind to see what she really is, or maybe you refuse to see it because you fancy her prettier than Fleur and wouldn't mind meeting her after class for some extra-curricular activities!"

Bill left his chair and stalked over to his desk. Draco could see him pull in a couple of breaths, trying to compose himself, and he immediately felt a pang of remorse. It was a juvenile thing for him to say. And he knew it was particularly spiteful to Bill because Gryffindors valued loyalty. He’d been trying to get a rise out of Bill, maybe even hurt him, and wasn’t that just an idiotic thing to do? Hurt the only person who seemed to like him? 

Draco looked down at the papers spread across the desks, trying to focus on something other than the guilt, but the scripts seemed suddenly illegible. He wondered how upset Bill was but couldn’t bring himself to look over. He was going to have to say something, apologize maybe, but the longer the silence stretched, the harder it was to think about the words. Draco swallowed hard. 

Bill walked back, his footsteps marking his path even though Draco couldn’t look at him. His cheeks felt hot. 

Draco heard Bill sigh and sit back down. “You said ‘First.’ What’s second?”

Draco had to rewind the conversation in his head. He had said ‘first’ when Bill asked why he didn’t trust Claire. Bill was asking for him to continue the conversation. He wasn’t asking for an apology or looking to give him a lecture. It was a relief. Draco was always better at ignoring a conflict than resolving one. 

Draco let out a breath and risked a glance at Bill’s face. It was a little blank, but not outwardly angry, or worse, disappointed. He swallowed again. “Second, someone tried to break into the old Potions laboratory over break.”

Bill’s eyebrows furrowed. “I heard that the alarms went off. Dumbledore had me check to make sure the wards were still up. He said one of the students was found sleep walking nearby.”

Draco hadn’t heard that piece of the story. “Was it one of the Ravenclaws?”

“Yes.”

“Professor Jameson stayed behind over break to fill in for Flitwick. And someone using a masking potion deliberately tried to bypass the wards and get in. The student was a decoy, someone to blame if it didn’t work.”

Bill sat forward. “You’re sure about that?”

“I saw her. Well, I saw a figure in shadows. But who else would it have been?”

“Professors are given blank passes through the wards. Any one of the professors could have returned. And I’m willing to be a clever enough student could sneak back in as well.” 

“Occam’s Razor, Bill.”

“Muggle philosophy, Draco?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. 

Bill leaned in. “What about the Potion’s lab is so important?” 

For a moment, Draco didn’t want to tell him, not when Bill was discounting his arguments against Claire. But then he remembered what had prompted him to share in the first place: Bill had defended him to Dumbledore, before Bill had any cause to do so. Whatever squabble they’d just had was negligible compared to that.

“The old Potions Laboratory was used when Tom Riddle was a student,” he told Bill. “He was Head of the Brewers Club and would have spent a lot of time there. We know that he left a horcrux in Hogwarts, now someone is trying to break into a place that is a favorite of his. What does that tell you?”

“They’re looking for the horcrux.”

“And…?”.

“It’s likely an object personal to him.”

“How about a certain trophy for special services that isn’t in the trophy case?”

Bill gave him a long, assessing look. “Sure you don’t want to join the Order? This is twice you’ve helped us.”

“Three times,” said Draco. “I’m serious about Claire.”

“I will take your warning into consideration.”

“When it all blows up in your face, I’m going to be insufferable,” Draco warned. 

“I don’t doubt it. Now how about we actually get to work on these runes?”

“Finally,” Draco groused. 

They turned their attention to the runes in front of them, parceling out the start of a comparison heuristic that should help them begin the translation process. They worked a little later than usual, but neither of them seemed to mind. 

“Good work,” Bill said, when they finally started packing up. 

“You too,” said Draco.

Bill snorted. “Got a busy weekend ahead of you?”

"I've got a test to just barely pass.” Draco slung his school bag over his shoulder. "It's amazing how much studying has to go into failing a test."

"Have fun then.”

"Loads," said Draco, voice thick with sarcasm. 

He was practically out the door when Bill called out again. "Thanks for the books!"

Draco halted for a moment. "You're welcome," he said, and then continued on his way.

OoOoOoO

Bill packed up for the day, his head full with the information Draco had provided. It was interesting how easily he’d given the information on the horcrux, but then again, Draco seemed to be loyal to himself first. Persuading Draco not to join Voldemort might be easier than Bill was expecting; persuading Draco to join the Order… that was going to be more difficult. 

He made his way into the teacher’s lounge, spotting Claire at her usual spot, a corner armchair, with a cup of tea on a side table. She was reading through a stack of essays, her nose scrunched as she marked the pages. She looked up when Bill entered and gave a shy smile.

“Thanks again.”

“Hope Peeves didn’t do too much damage,” Bill said, dropping things down in the spot he’d claimed for himself, a sofa next to the window. He was shameless about piling the entire length of the couch with parchments and scrolls while he worked, which kept anyone else from joining him.

Claire shook her head. “Filch got it straightened in an hour. Still, your help was greatly appreciated.”

Bill liked Claire. She was quiet, studious, and gentle. She was, perhaps, a little too retiring, a little too modest at times – not just in dress, but in manner as well. Like right now, consistently thanking Bill for letting her use her room. Bill knew many insecure people who felt the need to over-thank a colleague, and hadn’t thought anything of it, but now that Draco had put the thought in his head, he wondered at her sincerity.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” he told Claire. “I’m sure you’d let me use your room in an off-period if I needed.”

“Of course!”

“See?” Bill grinned. “No big deal.”

She ducked her head a little. 

“How were your holidays?” Bill asked. “I know you had to stay at school. That must have been disappointing.”

“My family was never much into the holidays. It was nice to have some time to myself.”

“Surely your boyfriend missed you. Or girlfriend?”

“Oh, I don’t… that is… I’m not seeing anyone.” Claire looked flustered, ducking her head and tucking her hair behind her ears, but there was something about the actions that seemed off to Bill in that moment. He pushed harder.

“Really? A smart, pretty witch like yourself?”

“No.”

“No one you’re interested in then?” 

Claire now reached up to cover her face. “No, I don’t… I get awkward around people.”

Bill finally realized what struck him as odd about the whole thing. Claire was fair-skinned, not quite as pale as the Weasleys and certainly not as pale as Draco, but pale enough that she should be blushing right now. If she was as embarrassed as her behavior suggested, her face ought to be bright red. But there was no blush on her cheeks, no redness on her neck or ears. 

Bill gave her a grin and settled back with his papers. “Well, let me know if you ever want a wing-man. I’ll help.”

“You’re very kind,” Claire said. She slowly pulled her hands away from her face, like she was afraid Bill might say something else embarrassing. When he didn’t, she resumed her work, her face as even-toned as it had been when their conversation began. 

Bill turned to his work as well, but he wasn’t looking at the papers. The lack of a blush wasn’t enough to convict her of being duplicitous, but it was strange. There were innocent explanations that could explain it though. Make-up or charms were often used by witches, and some wizards, to keep their skin from getting blotchy and it could hide a blush. Or it could be that Claire was pretending to be embarrassed because she felt the need to play a role to fit in at Hogwarts. Or, it could be that Draco had a point after all. 

Although, if what Draco had said about his family was true, he could very well be projecting his own issues on the teacher. Bill frowned as he remembered what Draco had said about his mother. It sounded scarring. Not that Bill’s own introduction into human sexually hadn’t been similarly abrupt. Bill remembered being a young boy and walking through a door that should have been locked. He remembered a lot of bare flesh and his parents panicked faces. It was those faces that told him he shouldn’t be there, even if he hadn’t understood what was happening. He’d run away and a few minutes later his parents had found him and explained how babies were made. Nine months later, the twins were born. It was similarly awkward to Draco’s story, although significantly less dramatic. 

Bill stopped by the library after dinner and then made his way up to Dumbledore’s office. The Headmaster waved him in and then waved at the dish of lemon drops. Bill took one and settled into what was becoming ‘his’ chair in front of the desk. 

Dumbledore spotted the book in his hand. ““Is that an old yearbook?”

“I thought of something over the past few days,” Bill lied, covering up Draco’s involvement. “When I was at those Death Eater meetings, Voldemort mentioned his horcrux a few times. But the language he used seemed particularly possessive. I’ve been looking through these,” he held up the yearbook, “for a hint of what might be important to him. After talking with my brother about the Chamber of Secrets, I thought of the trophy that Tom Riddle received for special services to the school. But when I looked through the yearbook, the trophy wasn’t pictured, and there’s no mention of him winning that award.”

Dumbledore nodded. “It did seem a difficult thing to celebrate, considering the loss of life that occurred during those events. And it was even more difficult because I knew that Tom was lying about the creature responsible. The award was kept secret.”

Bill nodded. “And the trophy isn’t in the trophy case.”

“Funnily enough, you are not the first person to bring that up to me today.”

Bill sat forward. “Really?”

“Professor Stevick gave some Hufflepuffs a detention for talking-back in class. He set them to polishing the trophies, and they stumbled upon the plaque for the trophy issued to Tom Riddle. When he came back to check on their work, and saw the missing trophy, he assumed they had broken it or stolen it. He came to me to verify their tale. I confirmed that the trophy had been lost for several years now.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I have an inkling.”

“And if you find it?”

“I was considering making a duplicate,” Dumbledore said. “If I return the copy to the trophy case, we might be able to catch a spy in the act of stealing it.”

Bill smiled. “I’d love to help you with those wards. I know a few that can spring a trap to catch a thief.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “I was hoping you might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned before, this is an edited version of my story on FFN where I am leaving author's notes as I revise to talk about the editing process. I do hope you enjoy this chapter. I have a tumblr now, I'm Adurowrites over there as well. I don't know how to use it just yet, but I am going to post status updates for the story. Let me know what you think!


	17. Debate

“He jus’ needs more time ter get used to the saddle,” Hagrid proclaimed. He wiped his brow and dropped against the fence in exhaustion. The posts creaked under his considerable weight but held firm. 

Draco swiped at his own face with his sleeve. It was a cold morning, but Orion had given them both a workout. Draco had pulled off his coat fifteen minutes ago, and he was still overheated. Sweat was beading at his hairline. His shirt was damp with it and with melted snow from being tossed into a snowbank by the thestral. He glared at Orion. The thestral chuffed and tossed his head. He continued to prance about the pen, not tired in the slightest. 

“He’s used to the saddle,” Draco said. “He’s just not used to the saddle and me.” He thought for minute, fingers tapping in his usual pattern.

“What are yeh thinkin’?” Hagrid asked slowly. 

“We need to introduce the new elements separately.”

Draco stepped towards Orion, hands out, even as Hagrid fumbled over a few words of caution. Orion allowed him to approach and unbuckle the saddle. Draco pulled it off and then grabbed the reins. Orion wasn’t wearing a true bridle. It was more of a hackamore, because the thestral wasn’t used to a bit yet. He let Draco lead him to the fence they were using as a mountain post, but then froze as Draco carefully found his seat. There were some riders who enjoyed riding bareback. Draco wasn’t one of them, but he could ride without a saddle if needed. Draco held his breath, waiting for the thestral’s revolt. It didn’t come.

Orion held still. His wings rustled a bit and his head tipped to the side as he considered this new predicament. From across the pen, Hagrid looked equal amounts pleased and worried. Draco cautiously squeezed his legs tighter and Orion took a few halting steps forward. He froze again when he realized that the weight on his back stayed with him. 

“It’s just me,” Draco said, patting the side of his neck.

Orion’s ears twitched back towards him, and then he snorted as Hagrid pulled out a piece of jerky. 

“Come ‘ere, boy.”

Orion jerked forwards, the snack far more important than his passenger. His neck extended, but Hagrid backed up, encouraging him to walk further. Orion finally kicked into a trot to snatch the treat. Hagrid pulled out another piece and continued to walk him around the pen until all the jerky was gone. Once Hagrid held up his hands, the signal for ‘no more’, Orion gave a short buck and then sped into an easy lope, hoofs kicking higher than strictly necessary. It was an attempt to dismount him, but not throw him. Draco kept his seat and tried to minimize any extra bouncing, which might spook the thestral further. As soon as Orion slowed, Draco took the opportunity to slide off. There was no point exhausting Orion’s patience. 

“We’ll train without the saddle,” Draco told Hagrid.

The half-giant looked apprehensive. “Yeh sure?”

Draco nodded. “Just to start.” He grabbed his coat and clamored over the fence, ready for a shower and clean change of clothes.

“Well, alrigh’ then. Thanks fer helpin’.”

Draco returned Hagrid’s wave and headed back towards the castle. He was aware that something was wrong as soon as he stepped inside. It was far too quiet for a Saturday. There should be students running about, playing in the halls or chatting in the window seats or making out in the alcoves. But the halls were nearly empty, and the students that did pass by were tight-faced and moving quickly, shooed back to their dorms by the Ravenclaw prefects, Goldstein and Patil.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked. 

Patil scoffed. “Like you don’t know.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and turned to Goldstein. He and Anthony had always gotten along, at least, as well as could be expected when he was a Malfoy and it was Goldstein’s goal, since first year, to become an Auror. Not just any Auror, but a Detective-Auror. He was obsessed with mystery novels and true crime radio programs. He’d all but memorized the entire collection of Sherlock Holmes and quoted it incessantly. 

Goldstein crossed his arms and stared down his nose at Draco, an obvious affection of a detective in a murder-mystery production. “Graffiti on the third floor, the typical slurs against Muggle-borns. That’s your style, isn’t it, Malfoy?”

The Ravenclaw often pushed Draco into the role of villain, the foil to his own cliché protagonist. Draco found he didn’t mind the stereotyped casting. It was all camp with Goldstein, obvious satire and exaggeration. There was no maliciousness in it.

So Draco gave an equally theatrical scoff and turned up his nose. “Graffiti? That’s bit plebian for my tastes.”

Patil flicked her braid over her shoulder and shot them both a glare. As Goldstein’s partner, she’d seen too many of their interactions to find them anything but irritating.

“I don’t suppose there were any spelling errors?” Draco continued, arching an eyebrow. “That would certainly narrow down your suspects.”

“I won’t be fooled by your attempts to thwart suspicion. I’m wise to your slippery ways.” Goldstein’s lips twitched as he tried to maintain his glare.

“Thwart suspicion? Please. Anyone ill-cultured enough to use graffiti as a way of expressing themselves is hardly a criminal mastermind.”

“That’s exactly what a criminal mastermind would say. I don’t suppose you’ve got an alibi for the past few hours, Malfoy?” 

Draco gestured to the state of himself, tussled, disheveled, and uncomfortably cold and damp. “Isn’t is obvious? Detention. I have an eyewitness with an impeccable reputation to speak on my behalf.”

“Rather convenient, isn’t it?” Goldstein’s lips twitched again. 

“Alas, you’ve caught me. As a criminal mastermind, I landed myself a detention so that I’d have an alibi while I graffitied the school, the punishment for which is a detention.”

Goldstein was full on grinning now. “So, it all comes out. I knew I’d catch you one day.”

Patil put her hands on her hips. “It’s nothing to laugh about. And whoever wrote that graffiti is going to get a lot more than detention. They’re lucky if they don’t get expelled.”

The smile faded from Goldstein’s face, which meant Patil was telling the truth. He met Draco’s gaze and serious wasn’t a good look on him. It made his face pinch in weird ways. “You should talk with your house. Rein them in.”

Draco felt the stirring of irritation. “What makes you think it’s Slytherin?”

“See for yourself. Outside the Transfigurations classroom.”

The two prefects left to hunt down more wayward students. Draco headed up the stairs, intent on seeing it himself. He passed a gaggle of seventh-year Hufflepuff girls on the way. They were whispering among themselves as they hurried towards their dorm. They spared him a suspicious look, which was entirely expectable, but a couple of them gave him a double-take. He saw Rosaline nudge her friends. A few of them snuck glances back, their faces turning red when he caught them looking. Giggles broke out.

Draco looked down at himself. What were they – _oh_.

Draco had thrown on an old school shirt for detention. It was tight across his shoulders now, and the white cotton had turned transparent from the melted snow. It was plastered to his chest.

Well. That was alright then. He’d rather have those looks than the typical suspicious glares. 

Draco considered charming himself dry, but he figured the disheveled look offered some proof to his alibi. And as he reached the third floor, he could see Darla up ahead with Chloe Baxter. They’d clearly taken a detour on the way to their tower to see what the fuss was about. They passed by him, heads ducked down, but their eyes flit over and lingered on his chest for a moment. Draco pretended not to notice, but he couldn’t help the smirk from sliding onto his face.

Filch was up ahead, at the end of the third-floor corridor. Claire Jameson was standing in front of him, trying to shoo back a collection of younger students.

“You’ve been told to return to your dorms,” she insisted. “Go on now.”

The students weren’t listening. They were jostling forwards, edging her back, necks craning to peek at the wall. She was doing a terrible job of commanding them, but it could be intentional. If Draco was correct about her loyalty, she’d want more students to see whatever hateful messages were painted on the walls. 

Draco hardened his footfalls as he approached, his boots thumping against the stone. “You’ve been given instructions.”

The students jerked around. Draco knew their names and faces; it was simple enough to memorize the student body from the Sorting Ceremony. Two second-year Gryffindors, two second-year Hufflepuffs, and a third-year Ravenclaw. No Slytherins, he noted. Then again, Slytherins would have been smart enough to return to their dorms as soon as instructed so they wouldn’t fall under any undue suspicion.” 

“Leave,” Draco snapped, “before I start docking points.”

The students were quick to obey, hustling by him without a word. These students didn’t have accusation in their eyes. They looked scared. Draco felt his steps quickening. What had made everyone so disturbed?

“All students are supposed to be in their dorms,” Claire said, voice apologetic. “Prefects too.”

Draco ignored her. The paint came into view and he stopped in shock. It wasn’t just a hateful message, it was a large, jagged picture of a snake emerging from a skull. A Dark Mark. 

Except, it wasn’t really. The actual design of a Dark Mark was more complex than most people realized. The snake should have been twisted into a figure eight with spotted scales. This snake was only coiled, and the scales were striped. The skull should have been grinning; this one appeared to be yawning. The whole picture should be done in shades of black-and-white, but this was done in such vibrant hues that it looked oddly cartoonish. Draco didn’t think this was the work of a shoddy artist. This was someone who was drawing a design they hadn’t seen before. Or – he tipped his head to the side and squinted – perhaps someone who’d only ever glimpsed a Dark Mark. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Filch said, voice sneering. “I’ve got work to do.”

He dunked a brush into a bucket of sudsy water and Draco left him to it. He retreated to the Slytherin dorms where the Pureblood group was gossiping about the mark. A few were even talking, openly, about the Dark Lord and joining the Death Eaters when they were of age. They were clearly emboldened by the mural. Some of the neutral students were trying their best to ignore the chatter while they worked on a group project, but he could tell the conversation disturbed them. Draco couldn’t see any signs of Blaise. 

The students were allowed out of their rooms by mid-afternoon. An inquisition was launched to find the culprits and Draco had to give his alibi to three different professors. Dumbledore gave a stern lecture before dinner than night. No suspects had been named, although Draco found the entire Gryffindor house was glaring in his direction, convinced he’d gotten away with yet another crime. In Draco’s opinion, who ever had left the Dark Mark wasn’t a student. It’d been put up too close to McGonagall’s classroom. No student – particularly no Slytherins – would be stupid enough to risk her wrath. But he also couldn’t see Jameson doing it, despite his belief she was somehow working for the Dark Lord. She’d been incredibly cautious in maintaining her cover so far. This sort of stunt didn’t fit her _modus operandi_, as Goldstein would say.

Draco puzzled over it the next day, finding it hard to concentrate on his homework. Then again, Warrington and Nott and the others in the Superiority group were hardly helping. They were loud. They were rowdy. They shoved their way through the Common Room and set hexes for their classmates who they judged to be less than desirable. Nott looked to Draco every time he dropped a hex, as if he was waiting for Draco to object. Nott clearly wanted to fight with him. He wanted to call Draco out for cowardice or betraying his blood. Draco didn’t say anything. Nott had his cronies all riled up, and they’d side with him in a challenge. It would be an all-out war, and while Draco believed he would come out the victor, it would draw a lot of attention. Draco wanted to avoid that. 

But there were other ways of getting rid of Nott. A potion slipped into his glass of pumpkin juice to cause a moderate bout of vomiting, or the faintest sprinkle of itching powder in his sheets to keep him from sleeping. Or, perhaps most difficult, a mood-altering spell, cast to give him a few days of lethargy. 

He mulled over those options before a better opportunity presented itself in Potions class. He and Nott were brewing partners, and they were working on a delirium antidote. It was a tricky potion, because the smoke could easily go caustic. When Nott’s back was turned, Draco cast a quick-freezing charm on the powdered unicorn hoof before dropping it in. He walked over to the potion’s ingredient shelf, ostensibly to grab the fig root they needed. He saw Nott turn back to the potion. The ice on the unicorn hoof kept it from dissolving right away and kept the potion a clear blue color. Nott, assuming it hadn’t been added, measured out a scoop and dropped it in. The potion began turning an appropriate pale yellow, but then, as the ice dissolved around the first addition, it turned acrid. Thick yellow smoke billowed up into Nott’s face. He stumbled back with a curse and started choking. The other students retreated in alarm. 

Snape, with reflexes honed from decades of brewing, immediately cast a venting charm. It wasn’t enough to save Nott, who dropped to his knees as he gagged. Snape had Draco take him up to the infirmary. Pomfrey clucked her tongue while she grabbed her potions for smoke inhalation and declared he’d have to remain there overnight. 

The Slytherin common room was quieter that evening. Everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, even some on the Pureblood side. It was an effective way to restore some peace, but because his response had been covert, he hadn’t gained any support from it. If Draco truly wanted supporters, he’d have to come up with some sort of goal, and he didn’t have one just yet. Perhaps that was why he found himself wandering up the Equality meeting that Wednesday night. He walked up with Blaise, who took Draco’s company and his position on the Neutral group to mean that he was actually questioning his allegiance to the Pureblood Superiority group. 

“Muggles were the first to form governments based on the concept democracy,” Blaise rattled off. “It took wizarding culture over a century to follow their lead and to do away with monarchies. Wouldn’t you say we’re better for it?”

“Malfoys are direct descendants of the French monarchy,” Draco said flatly. “Many of my ancestors were beheaded in the uprisings.”

A comment like that used to cow Blaise. Now he just gave him an unimpressed look. “When governing power is held by one person, or one family, the rest of the population will rise in protest because that is unsustainable, unethical, and leads to an unequal distribution of wealth.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t thought Blaise was interested in the philosophy of government. He followed him into the classroom and watched him be greeted by the other Equality students. Blaise appeared to be something of a celebrity among them, which was good to see. Draco didn’t want to have to rescue him again.

Draco’s own presence caused some consternation. Potter’s face went red with anger. Weasley looked confused and Granger outright aghast. In fact, the entire Equality party seemed torn between shock and horror. 

McGonagall, the faculty advisor, was quick to approach, condemnation written across her features. “What’s your purpose here, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco shrugged a shoulder. “Damned if I know. It said on some sheet that I was supposed to visit each group, though why I'm supposed to visit this one, I don't know. It hardly seems worth the effort.”

McGonagall stared at him. “Are you saying that you are a member of the _Neutral_ Party?”

“Is that the one?” Draco looked down at his shirt and brushed away an invisible piece of lint. It served two purposes. One, it irritated McGonagall. Two, it allowed him to look away from her ire. Draco wasn’t easily intimidated, but he had no qualms in admitting that the Gryffindor Head of House made him nervous. 

“Ms. Granger, would you please get the list of party members and bring it to me?"

Granger was quick to comply, always eager to be of help. Draco watched McGonagall scan the list, her lips pursing when she spotted his name. “Very well, you may remain for the meeting,” she said stiffly. “But I will have no unnecessary interruptions or comments, is that clear?”

“As Trelawny’s crystal ball,” Draco drawled and slipped by her before she could say anything else. He headed to the desks in the back of the room. The rest of the Neutral Party had already gathered, but Draco never sat with them. He picked a seat a few rows back and spotted Bill in the corner of the room. He was another of the faculty advisors. Bill gave him a grin; Draco returned a nod. 

He slumped in his chair as the meeting began and pulled out a quill and piece of parchment. Ostensibly, he was taking notes. In reality, he was writing his Arithmancy essay. But his attention was pulled to the debate. The Equality group tackled their discussion with far more rationality than the Superiority group. They talked about equality in terms of morality, but also from a basis of research and science. They talked about philosophy and the inherent rights of humanity. When the Neutral Party raised questions about the decline of cultural heritage, one of the rallying cries of the Superiority group, they offered suggestions of introductory classes to help Muggle-borns acclimate to the culture and additional holidays to promote traditional celebrations. They also pointed out the ways in which Muggle-born wizards and witches had assisted society, not detracted from it. 

Draco pretended not to be impressed. He leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs, and glared at the room at large. The glare turned genuine when the subject of war was broached. It was brought up innocently. The hour was nearly over and Potter and Weasley had begun goofing off. Granger reprimanded them before McGonagall could. “There is a war going on. Let's try to concentrate, shall we?”

“It’s not a war," said Weasley. “Not yet any way. There haven't been any real battles.”

“War,” said Granger primly, “is an armed conflict between groups that involves death and destruction. I think it fits the definition.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like a real war yet,” said Weasley. “I mean, what are we fighting for right now?” 

“Our lives?” Potter asked. 

Granger shook her head. “It’s more than that. We’re fighting to rid ourselves of a tyrannical monster who wants to take over our country and rule our lives. This is about freedom, the freedom to be governed by who we want, the freedom to live in peace, and the freedom from discrimination.” 

There were a few cheers of agreement from the Equality group. 

“Doesn’t war usually involve more death and destruction?” Weasley asked, still on the war question.

“It’ll get there soon enough. Once the battle begins, even the people who want to stay out of the conflict will have to pick a side.” Granger gave a meaningful look at the Neutral Party. 

“All-out war should be avoided at all costs,” Isobel challenged from her seat. “Do you have any idea what the casualties would be otherwise?”

“This isn’t just about the freedom for Muggle-borns,” Granger returned. “It’s your freedom too. You’ve heard what the Superiority group thinks. They want to set up a hierarchy based on blood-purity. A lot of you are Half-bloods and you’re going to have to pick. Freedom or death.”

Draco nearly snapped. He dropped his chair down with a bang, not caring that he got glared at by the entire room – Neutral and Equal alike. 

“It does appear that’s time is up for now,” McGonagall announced, checking her watch. “But this is an interesting topic that’s been raised. Please think about how the proposed Superiority laws will impact you, your families, and your friends for next week.” 

The students got up to leave, already talking among themselves. Draco remained seated, too irritated to think about navigating the crowd. He watched the room empty, noting that Bill was hanging back. 

“You okay?” Bill asked, once they were alone.

Draco turned to him. “You’re all so bloody arrogant! You’re just as bad as the Pureblood group!” 

“How’s that then?”

“Saying that we all have to fight. It’s no different than the Death Eaters.”

“No different?” Bill asked. “The Equality group is fighting for the rights of everyone. The Death Eaters are fighting to give power to Voldemort, and if he wins –,” 

“I know what happens if the Dark Lord wins,” Draco said. “Let’s think about this, shall we?”

He got up and erased the board in the front of the room. Bill followed, perching on a desk in the front row. 

“A quick breakdown of statistics,” Draco said. “Seventeen percent of the wizarding population is Pureblood, roughly thirteen percent is Muggle-born. That leaves a good seventy percent who are Half-blood or some fraction of half."

“I thought there were more Purebloods.”

Draco huffed out a laugh. “It depends if you count by the second, third, or fourth generation rules.”

“You count by the fourth generation?”

“Malfoys count five generations back.” 

Bill shook his head. “Of course you do.”

Draco turned to the board. “Let’s say the Dark Lord takes over right now.” Draco wrote ‘Dark Lord reigns’ on one side. “For easy math, let’s say there are only a hundred wizards in England. Under the Dark Lord’s rule, all seventeen Purebloods live in luxury. That means you too, Bill.”

“Sounds nice.”

Draco smirked and wrote down _17: alive_. “Let’s also say that the Dark Lord kills all the mudbloods. He wouldn’t, because he’d end up devastating the economy, and most likely they’d be forced to work menial jobs or they’d flee the country, but we’ll go worst case scenario on this and say that all of them are dead.” He wrote _13: dead_ under _17: alive_. “That leaves us with seventy Half-bloods who work middle-class to upper-class jobs, depending on how pure their blood is. But they’re still alive."

_70: alive_ followed the tally, but then he erased it. “We’ll, he’d probably kill Potter too, so it's only sixty-nine who live, but the point is that total, we get eighty-six people still alive.” He wrote down 86: total alive and circled it.

“Sounds plausible,” said Bill.

“It’s a logical assumption. Of course, this is if everyone just laid down their arms and gave up. However, let’s say there is war. Let’s even say your side wins.”

He wrote down ‘War’ on the other side of the board. “Over half of the Purebloods are Death Eaters, so that’s nine people dead or kissed by the dementors when this whole thing is over. Unfortunately, another four were convicted of abetting the Death Eaters, falsely accused, or killed trying to save their loved ones, so they’re dead as well.”

_13: dead_ was the first count on that side.

“Now, there are quite a few half-bloods who are Death Eaters or Pureblood supporters. I put the count around 20 percent.”

“Really?”

Draco nodded. “Twenty percent of the seventy half-bloods is fourteen, so that’s another fourteen dead or kissed."

_14: dead_ was put under the _13: dead_.

“The war would brutal. Say that each of the twenty-three dead Death Eaters manage to take out at least one non-Death Eater before they go, that’s another twenty-three dead right there.”

_23: dead_ was added.

“And we have to factor in casualties, which is typically around seven percent.” 

_7: dead_ joined the tally. 

“If we do the math for survivors,” Draco wrote down the total and circled it. _43: total alive_. “Forty-three people live in that scenario. Compare that to eighty-six. We'’e talking twice the number of dead.”

“Are you saying that all of the Muggle-borns should give up? That they should abandon their country, or resign themselves to a life of servitude, or even sacrifice themselves so that not as many people die in an unjust war?”

Draco put down the chalk and stepped back. “I don’t know.”

“What would you do, if you were a Muggle-born in this scenario?”

Draco shrugged. “Leave, probably.”

“You wouldn’t fight?”

“I don’t… there are so many people who don’t want to fight, who just want it all to stop. What right does thirteen percent of the population have to demand that everyone fights to protect them?”

“If no one fights, even Purebloods will suffer. Life, dictated on someone’s terms, isn’t really life.”

“Or maybe the people trying to avoid a conflict love life more than you.” 

“How so?”

“Imagine you and Fleur get married this winter,” Draco said. “Congratulations. You have a baby, my sympathies. He’s got her hair, thank Merlin, and your eyes. You name him Arthur after your dear old dad. So you don’t get confused at family reunions, you call him Arty. Unfortunately, Death Eaters attack. They hold you, Fleur, Arty, myself and Snape hostage. They say that if we give them the baby, we will all be set free. If you don't, we all die."

“Rather unpleasant.” 

“Who’s going to care the most if Arty dies?” 

“Myself and Fleur.”

“What if the Death Eaters ask me and Snape to make the decision to give up Arty? Is that fair?”

“No, you don’t love him as much. It’s an easier exchange.”

“Exactly. You all,” Draco gestured out at the room, “are valuing freedom over life. But there are those of us who love life more than freedom.”

“It’s an interesting argument, but I don’t think it holds.”

“Why not?” Draco took a seat across from Bill.

“Because we’re not animals,” said Bill. “Life, for human beings, is all about the ability to choose and make decisions. That’s what sets us apart from other creatures. We have the ability to choose a career and our friends and what clothes we wear and how we treat other people. We can choose to be kind and ethical, or we can choose to become Death Eaters and murderers. For humans, life and freedom go hand-in-hand. If you take freedom away, we lose our humanity. That’s what’s really at stake here.”

“If every person deserves freedom, then Granger does not have the right to insist that I fight for her when her freedom is impinged. Because that’s taking away my freedom.”

“The freedom to do nothing.”

“Precisely.”

“Is that why you’re part of the Neutral group? You want to do nothing?”

“What else would you have me do? My father, my friends, and my culture all demand that I fight for the Dark Lord, while you and the rest of the Gryffindors demand that I fight for some vague notion of freedom. But I’m the one that risking everything, aren’t I? If Granger dies fighting for freedom, that’s because she had nothing else to lose, but I do! I have a life, and a future, and a family.”

“You have more to lose because society has given you more,” Bill said. “Based on nothing but your name and what you were born with.”

Draco sighed. “Are you going to turn this into a lecture about privilege?”

“No, but only because it seems you know the lecture already.”

“I understand that being born a Malfoy has given me advantages. I am not blind to that. That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Draco looked away for a moment. He chewed his lip and felt his fingers begin to tap out their pattern, 1 to 2-4-3-5. He looked back at Bill. “Well, if Granger fights in this war, if Potter fights in this war, if even you and your brothers fight, you won’t be facing your family in the battle, will you?”

Bill opened his mouth, then shut it. A look crossed his face, too quick for Draco to decipher.

Draco’s fingers sped up. “Granger demanded that I go to war for her. She’s essentially asking me to kill my father. Or my classmates. Or what few friends I have. Why should I do that for her?”

“You shouldn’t.” Bill said it so adamantly that Draco blinked. Bill smiled at him. “You don’t believe your classmates in the Superiority group when they tell you to fight. You’re aware when they’re arguing from emotions or when they’re reciting propaganda. Why are you taking what Hermione says at face value?”

“Isn’t it what you all believe? That everyone must fight for freedom and justice and equality. Everyone must sacrifice their lives for the greater good?”

“Is that really what you think of us?”

Draco shrugged.

“First of all, you all are children,” Bill said. 

Draco frowned. “You don’t have to sound so condescending.”

“I’m not being condescending. I’m concerned.”

“Sure sounds the same.”

Bill rolled his eyes. “As children, all of you are too young to fully understand the consequences of war, so your arguments are moot to begin with. Secondly, none of you have any life experience separate from your families. You are arguing for viewpoints that you were raised with but that you haven’t had the chance to examine on your own. Thirdly, there is no instruction being offered to any of you. You’re being asked to participate in a debate of two disparate beliefs without any education or guidance, and all that’s done is allowed the loudest voices to carry in a veritable echo chamber.”

“You’re angry,” Draco realized.

“I’m not –,” Bill paused and reconsidered. “Maybe I am. The purpose of this debate was to create a meaningful discussion where students could reconsider their beliefs, but it was apparent at the last debate that we haven’t been successful in providing that opportunity.”

“What’s your solution then?”

“We teach and instruct and keep all of you safe until you’re of age.”

“Technically Granger’s of age. And isn’t your brother of age now too?”

“In a couple of months.”

“It’s not as if we’re all magically adults when we turn seventeen.”

“I know. I just…,” Bill trailed off and shook his head. “None of you have to fight. That doesn’t have to be how you show your allegiance to either side. And you, Draco, you have so many options available to you. You could be a Healer or an attorney or a reporter. Hell, you could even be a teacher. You don’t have to fight. I don’t want anyone to think that they have to fight.”

Draco let out a breath. It was a comfort to hear. No one else was saying anything like it. 

“Forget what everyone’s telling you for a moment,” Bill said. “What do you think should happen with all of this?”

Draco frowned as he thought. His eyes slid to the board. 

“Don’t look at that,” Bill said. “I understand these are reasonable assumptions, but they’re still assumptions. And your logic was flawed anyway.”

Draco whipped around to Bill. “_What?_”

Bill grinned at the venom in his voice. “You said that you don’t value freedom as much as the Equality group.”

“I don’t.”

Bill’s smile grew. “Draco, if you don’t value freedom, why have you been keeping your genius a secret?”

“Because –,” Draco cut himself off. Because if he revealed his genius, Lucius would become demanding. The Dark Lord would become demanding. Expectations would be heaped onto him. He’d be trapped into a career he didn’t want or forced into a role he didn’t want to play. 

“You’ve kept your freedom by hiding yourself from the world,” Bill said, his voice soft. “Your entire life has been a secret, all for the sake of maintaining your freedom. That proves that you value it, perhaps just as much as every member of the Equality group.”

Draco swallowed hard. There was no way to refute Bill’s logic. He’d valued his own freedom over the wishes of his father, over the expectations of his family, and over the call of the Dark Lord. He’d done that for himself, because he wanted the freedom to make his own path. Bill was right. He was risking his life for freedom, and he was baffled that he hadn’t realized that before. 

And if Draco was risking his life for his freedom, didn’t it make sense that Granger was doing the same? And that the other Muggle-borns would follow her example? They wanted the freedom to rise in the wizarding world, to be respected, to be accomplished. And Zabini wanted the freedom to make friends with everyone, despite blood purity and social status. Pansy wanted freedom too. The freedom to secure her own future, not dependent on marriage or gifts from lovers. Why shouldn’t they fight for those things the way Draco did – or defy culture and society and family the way that Draco had? 

Draco felt something settle into place in his head. If Draco wanted to buck tradition for his freedom, then so should others. But Bill’s words were also a comfort. He didn’t have to fight. Not if he didn’t want to. Bill didn’t expect it of him, and Draco found that he trusted his judgement. As his brain settled, the tension in his chest – the tension that had been present since Lucius announced he’d receive the Dark Mark – finally eased. He took in a breath, the first comfortable breath in a matter of months. 

But then Bill flinched. His hand jerked towards his arm before he stopped himself. Draco knew what that meant. It was a sobering reality. While Draco was deciding to do away with fighting, Bill was risking his life. 

“I have to go,” Bill said, getting up and grabbing his things. His movements were brusque but his face was concerned. “Are you going to be okay?”

“You’re the one going to spy on the Dark Lord.”

Bill gave a tight smile. “You looked lost in thought for a minute there. We’ll talk more tomorrow, alright?”

“Sure.”

Bill left with a quick step. Draco sighed and sat for a minute more, just enjoying the reprieve he felt. It was almost a heady feeling. But the relief faded when he returned to his room. There was an imperious looking owl perched on his desk with a letter from his father. Lucius wished him happy holidays, belatedly, and hinted that the Malfoy family might have cause for celebration in a few weeks’ time. He closed with a reminder of the “event” to occur once school let out. 

The owl left without waiting for his own letter, meaning Lucius wasn’t reply. Draco felt a flash of anger. Lucius was dictating the most important moment of Draco’s life, he was all but selling Draco into the Dark Lord's service, and there wasn’t even room for a _discussion_? 

Draco burnt the letter and turned in for the night, but sleep didn’t come. His mind burned with the injustice. He’d finally felt some relief only for it to be stripped in a matter of minutes. He tossed and turned in his bed, sometimes catching a brief moment of sleep, but then waking again, clear-eyed and angry. He finally gave up on sleep in the middle hours of the night. He pulled on a set of clothes, grabbed his cloak, and stalked out of the dorms. He left the castle through a side door and made his way to the dead tree by the lake. 

It was a cold night, but clear. A million stars sparkled in the black silk sky and a few misty clouds drifted in front of the pale gold moon. The snow gleamed bright on the ground. Draco stared out at the lake, perfectly calm, reflecting the equanimity of the heaves, and felt an irrational anger at its peacefulness. He picked up a fistful of rocks and hurled them into the lake, one after the other, stirring up great ripples that threated to drown the silvery reflection of the moon. But the lake was vast, and the ripples dissipated too quickly for any real satisfaction. Draco sighed, the sound of his breath echoing across the water. He picked up a few more rocks, but this time sent them skipping across the surface. Or at least, he tried to skip them, but he’d never been any good at it. The most he got was two skips. He chucked the rest of the stones and walked back to the dead tree. He sat down to think. 

A few hours ago, he’d begun to think about a chance to live his life without fighting, but now he was faced with the reality that he wouldn’t be allowed to walk away. He was going to have a battle on his hands, no matter what he chose. He shifted to look up at the stars. He could name fifty different constellations, but in this moment, had no desire to do so. 

oOoOo

Bill arrived at the Death Eater meeting and immediately knew something was afoot that he hadn’t been aware of. It was happening more and more lately. It wasn’t a deliberate attempt to keep Snape out of the meetings, although Bill knew there were suspicions on the Potions Master. But Voldemort was spending most of his time in France, and had turned his focus on France, and as such, many of the British Death Eaters were left out of meetings. It was frustrating, because Bill already had to piece together what was happening at each meeting. Now he had to piece together what had happened at one or two meetings previous. 

They were in a new house this time, a large, old manor home that appeared to have been abandoned at one point. A full wing of the manor only held empty rooms while the furnished areas housed an eclectic variety of furniture, making Bill think it was recently brought in. There were some maps and papers left lying about on a table in the study, which was currently full of ‘groupies’, relatives and friends of the actual Death Eaters. Voldemort only marked select followers. It allowed for greater secrecy. Bill weaved through a couple of Death Eater wives to take a peek at the maps. They showed the layout of the French prison Bastion. Voldemort was planning a jail break then.

A scream sounded from the empty side of the Manor. It was a sound of agony and Bill immediately knew what had caused it. He was getting used to the screams of the Cruciatus curse. He pulled in a bracing breath and followed the screaming, picking his way through the groupies and entering what once might have been a small ballroom. There were a dozen Death Eaters standing in a semi-circle around three prone prisoners. The prisoners were all male, middle-aged and older. They all wore a guard’s uniform that was wrinkled and tattered and stained with blood and other bodily fluids. It appeared they’d been held for several days. Bill was willing to bet that they worked at the prison. 

He memorized their faces as best he could, and then turned to the Death Eaters around them. Only four were established Death Eaters. He recognized Nott Sr, Jugson, and both Carrows. The rest were new recruits, painfully young and dressed in the red robes of trainees. The senior Death Eaters were instructing them how to cast the Cruciatus. 

Bill looked to the front of the room where Voldemort was watching, perched on a chaise lounge and smiling as he watched the proceedings. Bill knew that not every trainee would receive the Dark Mark. Voldemort often tested the recruits, trying to determine which were the strongest, the most devious, the most loyal. Bill hadn’t been able to learn all of their names, but he knew their faces. All male except one. All under the age of twenty, most of them under eighteen. 

Severus and Lucius stood at the Dark Lord’s side, watching as well. Severus looked as he usually did, impassive and stone faced. His fingers curled into fists to keep from flinching when the prisoner’s screamed. Lucius’ eyes were narrowed as he watched the trainees cast the torture curse. He didn’t flinch when the prisoner’s screamed. 

“You have to mean it,” Nott told a boy, who couldn’t be more than sixteen. “You have to feel the hate and disgust for your victim.”

The boy cast again. His victim screamed, louder than before. Nott slapped his shoulder in congratulations.

Bill tucked himself against the wall and tried to tune out the screaming. Voldemort would applaud at times, or call out encouragement in his slithering voice. Bill noted which recruits got the most praise and which were jeered. He noticed that the young woman – girl really, she looked just of age – received the most taunting and the least instruction. Her Cruciatus was a weak thing, barely leaving her wand before dying out. Her intended victim whimpered more out of fear than actual pain. 

“What a joke,” one of the recruits laughed. “I hope you’re a better shag than you are a caster, because that's the only way you'll be sticking around here.” His hand dropped to grope her arse. She pushed him off with a curse, but the Death Eaters laughed, even Alecto Carrow. There was no solidarity amongst the women who had managed to make it to the Dark Lord’s side. She pushed her hair back from her face and tried to cast again. 

Bill watched with some surprise as Lucius broke away from the Dark Lord to approach her. The other recruits pulled back to let him pass. He stepped behind her. His voice was pitched low, enough that Bill had to creep closer to over here. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Lucius was saying, tipping his head towards Nott. “It’s not about hate. Ask yourself. Why are you here?”

The girl swallowed. Bill noted she was near tears. “To serve the Dark Lord and reclaim my country from Mudbloods.” 

“The man in front of you is not a Mudblood. This is someone from an old family. You don’t hate him, do you?”

She shook her head in answer.

“So how do you cast the Cruciatus if you do not hate your target?”

“Anger?”

“That’s a possibility. Let’s see how your friends do.” They watched as Nott and the other Death Eaters continued to instruct their recruits. They advised the trainees to connect with their anger and hatred. They encouraged them to kick and hit and spit on their prisoners. They praised large expressions of emotions and rage. Bill saw the recruits casting more and more powerful spells that fizzled out quicker and quicker as their energy flagged. 

“Do you see?” Lucius asked.

The girl nodded. “Is it a matter of building stamina?”

Lucius shook his head. “The Unforgiveables are not meant to be cast from emotion. They are not about anger or hate. They are about control. Control over another’s body, control of another’s mind, and ultimately, control over another’s life. Now, tell me, what do you need to have control?” 

“Power.”

“Precisely.” Lucius reached out and directed her to point her wand at the prisoner in front of them. “You are here to serve the Dark Lord and grow his power, and in doing so, you will grow your own. To cast a Cruciatus, you must revel in your own power. Try again.”

“Crucio!” the girl called, voice strong and clear. The spell hit, bright and vivid, and her captive screamed, loud and piercing. And he _kept_ screaming, his body writhing and shaking on the floor. The other recruits tuned to watch, their own faces twisting in envy. When she finally ended the curse, she was breathing heavily and sweat had turned her fair hair dark, but her eyes were bright with satisfaction. 

Lucius gave the girl a nod and stepped back. The other recruits turned to their casting with renewed vigor. 

Severus crossed the room to join Lucius. “You don’t usually take an interest in teaching,” 

Lucius was silent for a moment, and then he shrugged a shoulder. “Her name is Mirabelle Bonnet. I knew her father. He lost his wealth in service to our lord during the first conflict. Rather than face the loss of his family’s estate, he drank of vial of poison. It’s their home we’re in now.” Lucius tipped his head up to view the faded and crumbling mosaic on the ceiling. “I attended many a gala here. He was a good business partner. The least I can do is offer her a few tips to help her hold her own amongst the… rabble.” 

He gestured out at the group in a dismissive sort of wave. He was, Bill realized, unimpressed with the selection of recruits. He looked over to Voldemort, wondering what the Dark Lord thought of his child soldiers. But Voldemort wasn’t looking at the trainees. His red eyes were flitting between Lucius and Mirabelle and there was something calculating in his gaze that made Bill’s skin crawl. He was relieved when the meeting was over and he could escape back to Hogwarts. He wrote down everything, as he always did, and the details were easy to recall. He remembered the sound of every scream. He remembered every look of disgust, every bigoted slur. He remembered the guard’s faces. Their pain. Their terror. Their anguish and helplessness and tears and sobs. 

He turned the pages over once he had finished, not wanting to see them anymore even though he still had to put them into a code. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it again. He poured himself two fingers of whiskey, tossed it back, and then collapsed onto his bed. His body felt sore. It always did after hours of tension and hypervigilance. He closed his eyes and sleep dragged him under. 

He dreamed. First he dreamt of numbers dancing across a board, and then he dreamt of Death Eaters lining up to practice their Cruciatus on everyone Bill had ever loved. And then Mirabelle stood in front of him, wand pointed at his chest and Lucius stood behind her and whispered into her ear, “Power.” 

But it wasn’t Mirabelle anymore; it was Draco standing in front of him. His eyes were cold. His lips were twisted into a sneer. “How many people have to die, Bill?” 

_No one_, Bill wanted to say, _no one had to die_.

But the words were stuck in his throat. He couldn’t talk. He couldn’t even scream. 

Draco leveled his wand at his heart. “Crucio.”

Bill jolted up out of bed, gasping for air. His heart pounded in his chest. He reached up to rub his face and his hand came away slick with sweat. He staggered over to his desk and grabbed his wand to summon a glass of water. He drank quickly, spilling some over his chin. He dropped into his chair and forced his breathing to slow, begged his heart to calm down. He drank more water, slower this time. He told himself he was safe. He was at Hogwarts. He would put up a code tomorrow and the French authorities would be alerted and those three men would be saved. They could catch Death Eaters in a jail break. It would all work out. It would all be okay. 

His body slowly relaxed, but he still felt warm. He walked to the window and leaned his forehead against the chilled glass. It was surprisingly light outside for being in the middle of the night. The moon was nearly full and reflecting bright against the snow. The lake shimmered as the moonlight caught on the waves. No. Those weren’t waves. Those were ripples.

Bill’s eyes went to the shoreline. There was someone outside, throwing rocks into the water. Bill recognized the pale head of hair. 

His conversation with Draco seemed like it had taken place a week ago, not earlier that evening. He remembered how Draco seemed to think about his words, seemed to consider his arguments, seemed to be relieved at a prospect of a life without battle. He wondered if it was enough to change Draco’s mind or if Draco would join the new recruits and practice his Cruciatus on innocent men as well. He wondered if Draco knew how to cast the Cruciatus, if Lucius had given him the same lesson he’d given Mirabelle.

He watched as Draco attempted to skip a few rocks and failed miserably. He sat down by the dead tree and Bill sat down on the window seat. He wondered if he ought to call him in. Bill grabbed his notes from the meeting. He might as well put this into code now. If Draco weren’t back by the time he finished, he’d order him in. 

The process took half an hour, and by the time he was finishing the code, he could see Draco stirring. He watched him return to the castle and then he returned to bed. He closed his eyes and hoped the terrors he’d seen would fade in the morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm trying out tumblr for fic updates. I'm AduroWrites over there. I don't know how successful it is going to be. I also don't know how to tumblr. But feel free to laugh at my attempts. As always, this is a revamp of a story I have on FFN and if you're interested in the editing process, you can check out that version. Please let me know what you think of the chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> For new readers and old, I hope that you enjoyed the chapter!


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